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Copyright 


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Hots; Jfflorton’s Snbestment 












Hots; jUflorton’s 
Hfabesitment 


BY 

MRS. EVA MORLEY MURPHY 

)* 

Author of “The Miracle on the Smoky” 
and other stories 



Topeka., Kansas 
Crane & Company, Publishers 
1912 



Copyright 1912 

By Mrs. Eva Mobley Murphy 



^ Cl. A 31 95 75 

7-Ce. / 


Wo ifflp Jfflotfjer 

jWrs. Amelia ©ititiarb JWorlcp 
®f)ts£ Pook 

is affectionately bcbicateb 




Contents 


Chapter Page 

I A Mother’s Message 11 

II A Boy’s Promise 21 

III A Proud Spirit Humbled 28 

IV Hill and Valley Contend 42 

V Secrets 53 

VI Unwelcome Rumors 61 

VII What Happened at the Picnic 69 

VIII Lois is Convinced 78 

IX An Honest Confession 87 

X To Say Good-by 93 

XI An Important Question 102 

XII For Weal or Woe 109 

XIII Beginnings 121 

XIV The Best Husband in Seven Counties 127 

XV Dicksburg Enterprise 135 

XVI The Gamut 140 

XVII Sewing and Reaping 146 

XVIII Sunshine and Shadow 154 

XIX Lois Makes a Decision 167 

XX A Fresh Beginning 180 

XXI How Orville Came to Lie 190 

XXII Orville’s Relinquishment 200 

XXIII Katie’s Inspiration 207 

XXIV It Isn’t Fair 216 


( 7 ) 


8 


Contents 


Chapter Page 

XXV Sam’s Despair and Ralph’s Desperation 229 

XXVI Columbia’s Message 237 

XXVII Reunions 247 

XXVIII “Only Myself to Blame” 257 

XXIX “You Have Been Cheated” 263 

XXX “In His Steps” 269 

XXXI His Wish Came True 276 


Jforetoorb 


With the increasing development of the 
social sense of the community the problem of 
the conservation of our valuable national as- 
sets is engaging the earnest thought and effort 
of a growing proportion of our best people. 

All will acknowledge that the nation’s 
greatest treasures are its men, women and 
children, and the basic unit of national life 
is the family. A little study of easily obtain- 
able facts and figures will convince any fair- 
minded person that one of the chief causes of 
unhappiness, ill-health, broken families, pov- 
erty and crime is the traffic in intoxicating 
drink. 

Some day the great-hearted statesmen of 
this great nation will wake up to the realiza- 
tion of the necessity of forever prohibiting 
this infamous traffic. When these great na- 
( 9 ) 


10 


jforetootb 


tional leaders pause from their consideration 
of financial problems long enough to realize 
that it is women and children who are the 
greatest sufferers from the drinking habits of 
men, their inborn chivalry will echo the cry, 
“Women and children first,” and we shall 
have National Prohibition of the liquor traffic. 

It is to hasten a little, perhaps, this glorious 
consummation that this concrete example of a 
typical American family, blighted by this 
easily preventable evil, has been pictured. 

Eva Morley Murphy. 


Xots! Jfflorton’s inbestment 


CHAPTER I 

& iHotfjcr’s ftlesgage 

“Hi there! Hi there! Hi there! You mean old 
things! You think you’ll have nice green corn for 
your breakfast, don’t you? But we’ll fool you this 
time. Go back, I say! Hi there! Hi there!” 

A slender, agile figure was flying across the green 
prairie, waving its arms and shouting defiant orders to 
a long line of advancing cattle. Just behind came a 
smaller figure racing along, waving a sunbonnet in one 
hand and echoing the “Hi there! Hi!” of her elder 
sister ; but her tones were full of fear, and almost cry- 
ing she called, “Lois, Lois! We can’t do it! They’ll 
run right over us!” 

“We’ve got to do it, Katie. Come on! Make all 
the noise you can. Hi! Hi! Hi! You greedy old 
things! I tell you you sha’n’t have any of my pa’s 
corn. Where’s Rover, Katie? Here, Rover! Here, 
Rover! Sic ’em! Sic ’em! Sic ’em!” 

But Rover, usually a close companion of these small 
maids, was unaccountably absent. 

“ Oh, Lois, I’m afraid. Just see what a lot of horns !” 

And truly it was a sight to make the hearts of two 
children like these quake with fear. Behind them, a 
( 11 ) 


Hote ftlortonte Snbestment 


n 


short distance, was the field of corn with its dark-green 
banners shining in the morning sunlight, inclosed in a 
ludicrously inadequate fence of sagging wires and 
rotten posts, and in front this long line of cattle ad- 
vancing with a steady march like an army in battle 
array, their horns held aloft like spears. Like an army, 
too, they had a leader, — a large red steer with a white 
face, and horns longer and more wicked-looking than 
the rest. He was midway of the line and a length in 
advance of the others, plainly leading his willing forces 
in a determination to walk right over and through the 
crazy old fence and gorge themselves on the succulent 
sweetness of the young corn. 

Right in his path came this small girl, brown curls 
flying backward, brief pink calico skirt fluttering in the 
morning breeze, arms waving, no weapons of warfare 
except a willow switch about a yard long. He seemed 
to be as unconscious of this obstacle in his pathway as 
if she were a butterfly. This seeming contempt roused 
her ire to a still higher pitch, and she came on headlong, 
shouting, “You needn’t think I’m afraid of you, you 
old white-faced robber! Just wait till I get close 
enough and I’ll give you a cut across your old greedy 
nose that’ll make you forget the smell of corn for one 
while! Hi there! Hi! Hi! Hi!” 

And poor, timid Katie, with the tears rolling down 
her pale cheeks, came on too, as fast as her fat legs 
would bring her, calling in her high-pitched little 
treble, “Hi! Hi! Hi!” 

Lois was within a few yards of Old Baldface, her own 
heart beginning to quake with fear, but her voice still 


3 Jtlotfjer^ JWesteage 


13 


bravely determined, when he suddenly stopped; and 
on the instant, as though they had heard the order to 
halt, the whole line stood in its tracks. Involuntarily 
Lois slackened her impetuous advance, but renewed 
her defiant clamor. 

“Is he afraid of me, or will he lower those wicked 
horns and charge?” she questioned herself ; at the same 
time she was mocking him with taunting shouts of 
“Oh, you do see me, do you? Well, it’s time you did! 
And you’d better skeedaddle if you don’t want to get 
hurt. I tell you you are not going to have any corn 
for breakfast — not this morning!” 

At this critical moment reinforcements arrived. Over 
the little green hill to the right came the faithful Rover. 
With one loud yelp, as if he would say, “I’m coming,” 
he tore over the ground, wasting no more breath in 
noise, till he reached the girls ; then, sure of the victory, 
all three hurled themselves on the enemy. 

Old Baldface did not wait, however, for the attack. 
With one loud bawl, which his followers evidently 
understood as an order to retreat, he whirled, and 
with tail in air, raced across the prairie as though a 
demon were after him. Rover had the satisfaction of 
nipping the heels of some of the more clumsy of his 
followers, but Old Baldy kept well out of harm’s way. 

Two exhausted small girls were sitting on the grass 
by a big boulder when Rover came panting back. 

“Nice Rover. Good old doggie,” Katie praised, 
while she patted and fondled him. “Lois, I do believe 
he saved our lives!” she exclaimed. 

“Nonsense! Didn’t you see what a coward Old 


14 


Hote jHortonte Snbesrtment 


Baldy was ? Why, he ran faster and farther than any 
of the rest. I almost wish Rover hadn’t come ; I just 
would have liked, awfully well, to give that old thief 
one good cut across his sneaking old nose. He was one 
of the three that got into the field yesterday.” 

Katie sat with mouth open and eyes wide with 
astonishment during this speech. “Lois Columbia 
Morton, I do think you are the most brave girl I ever 
saw ! Weren’t you even a tiny little bit scared ? I was 
so awful ’fraid I most had fits,” she added. 

This honesty was too much for Lois. Her spirit of 
bravado vanished, and very humbly she confessed that 
when Old Baldy suddenly stopped and stood facing 
her, she was afraid of his long horns, and that she was 
“glad as glad” when she heard faithful old Rover com- 
ing. “And, Katie,” she added, “I guess you’re braver 
than I am ; ’cause I was so mad I didn’t think of being 
afraid at first, and you went right on into the face of 
danger when all the time you were afraid. I guess 
’most any general in the army would say it takes a 
brave soldier to do that.” 

Modest little Katie was so overwhelmed at this that 
she was speechless. 

In the pause that followed, Rover suddenly lifted his 
head and gave a warning bark. Looking in the same 
direction the girls saw a boy on horseback advancing 
toward them. 

“That Smith boy!” exclaimed Lois under her breath. 

“ Hello ! Resting after the chase ?” he bantered, with 
a mocking smile on his handsome face, as he drew rein 
beside them. “Good thing you had a dog. I’m 


& jWotfjet’s Jflesaage 


15 


guessing the cattle would have had a taste of corn 
before I could have got here if it hadn’t been for the 
dog.” 

Lois’s nose went up in the air in silent scorn, but 
bashful little Katie was surprised to hear herself say- 
ing, “Well, they just wouldn’t, Mr. Sam Smith. Lois 
would have turned them whether Rover came or not!” 

“Oh! She would, would she? I think it’s more 
than likely that that old white-faced steer would have 
turned her, and tossed her into the middle of next week 
if the dog hadn’t come just at the right minute. This 
is boys’ work. Why don’t your brothers do it instead 
of letting you girls risk your bones in contests with wild 
steers?” 

“We haven’t any brothers ; and we don’t need any, 
either. Our father is better satisfied with the way we 
keep the cattle away from the field than he would be 
with boys. Boys would probably go off fishing, or 
swimming, and neglect their work. We don’t. Our 
father is going to give us fifty cents a week for doing 
our work so well, and I don’t know of any boys around 
here that are getting that much, do you?” ended Lois 
triumphantly. 

The “Smith boy” evidently did not, but he was the 
last one to admit such a superiority of girls over boys, 
so he evaded the question by asking another : “What 
you goin’ to do with all your wealth?” 

“We shall not fritter it away on marbles, or ” 

Lois began, but Katie let the cat out of the bag at once 
by boasting, proudly, ‘‘Buy a side-saddle.” 

“You got a pony?” he asked with interest. Then 


16 


ICote jUlorton’g Snbestment 


catching sight of Lois’ scornful face he said, “I’ll bet 
you don’t get your side-saddle. Bet you’ll spend your 
money for ribbons and rings and other folderols.” 

This sparring was interrupted by the sound of hoof- 
beats, and a moment later Mrs. Morton dismounted 
from a tall, raw-boned sorrel work-horse, saying : 
“Girls, I’ve brought you Old Lucy. I watched you 
head off the cattle, from the south window upstairs, and 
I don’t want you ever to do such a rash thing again. 
Keep Lucy and Rover with you today, and if the cattle 
come back, as they probably will — yes, see, they have 
turned and are headed this way again now.” 

“Yes, sir, there they come! But don’t you worry, 
Mrs. Morgan. I’ll help the girls and we’ll chase them 
clear across the creek this time,” said the boy. 

“Thank you, Sammie — I think I heard your mother 
call you Sammie?” 

“Yes, ma’am. My name is Samuel Smith. The 
boys call me ‘Sam.’ ” 

“And you like that the best,” she said with a smile. 
“Well, Sam, I shall be very glad to have you help the 
girls, for those cattle are pretty hard to manage since 
they have had a taste of the corn. — You’d better 
hurry, girls; they seem to be coming pretty fast.” 

Lois, from the top of the big boulder, sprang lightly 
to her seat in the worn old saddle — although it was a 
man’s saddle, she sat modestly sidewise, as was the 
custom of ladies of that day — calling, “Quick, Katie. 
Climb up behind,” and with Rover barking and frisking 
around them in great excitement, the little party started 
in high spirits to meet the herd of cattle. Old Lucy 


3 Utotijetr’sJ jUlesfsiase 


17 


soon took the lead and kept it, much to Sam’s chagrin, 
her long neck outstretched, and her long, bony legs 
covering the ground in great strides. The two girls 
sitting so close on her back might have been two flies 
for all she seemed to mind their weight, but never a 
Kentucky thoroughbred was more obedient to the 
slightest touch of the rein than Old Lucy. 

There was no stopping to consider the question of 
flight before this squad of cavalry, and soon the cattle 
were fleeing at the top of their speed before their 
shouting, yelling, barking pursuers. Lois, in her eager- 
ness to be revenged on Old Baldy, rode recklessly 
through swampy places and took flying leaps over 
hummocks, saying occasionally, “Hang on tight, 
Katie,” a totally unnecessary admonition, as Katie’s 
arms were clutched tightly about Lois’ waist and her 
fat legs cramped themselves against Old Lucy’s bony 
sides. 

“There, you old robber! Take that! and that! and 
that!” and Lois rained blows, with her willow switch, 
on the back of Old Baldy, shouting with exultation. 

“Say, that old mare is a regular race-horse, isn’t 
she? And you ride like an Indian,” shouted Sam. 

“Down to the ford!” commanded Lois, — there was 
no time to acknowledge compliments now, — and pell- 
mell they all went on toward the ford. 

Suddenly Katie cried out in a frightened voice, “Oh, 
see!” 

Coming up the steep bank of the ford was a team of 
frightened horses, hitched to a farm wagon in which 
was a man and a woman. They had paused, and as 


18 


ULoii JHottott’jS Snbestment 


they caught sight of the avalanche of cattle coming 
toward them at right angles they seemed on the point 
of whirling, which would have overturned the wagon 
into the stream, when, suddenly, a sharp cut of the 
whip in the hands of the woman caused them to jump 
forward and tear madly past the cattle and out across 
the prairie. 

Lois had brought Old Lucy back on her haunches with 
a jerk, and the frightened girls watched helplessly the 
efforts of the man and woman in the wagon to stop the 
plunging horses. They were both clinging to the reins, 
the woman’s hands in front of the man’s, and indeed 
she seemed to be making the greater effort. Suddenly 
Sam dashed past them, shouting, “My mother!” and 
raced after the runaway team. 

Two terrified girls followed after, not knowing what 
to do, but watching the efforts of the boy to stop the 
frightened horses which the man and woman seemed 
unable to check or control. He soon overtook them 
and was riding alongside, trying to catch the off horse 
by the bridle. Just as he seemed on the point of doing 
so the wagon struck a big boulder and the woman was 
thrown out. The boy was still riding near the head 
of the off horse and did not see this catastrophe. The 
man continued to cling to the reins, and, swaying and 
bouncing, somehow managed to keep his seat. The 
team tore on down an incline, but Lois and Katie no 
longer watched — now there was something they could 
do. 

Old Lucy reached the side of the prostrate woman in 


% Jttotfjer'tf ifWes&age 


19 


a few bounds, and Lois, quickly slipping to the ground, 
raised the head of the poor woman and gently pillowed 
it on her lap, while she sent Katie to the slough near 
by for water. This she came bringing presently, in an 
old broken jug. The water revived the poor woman 
somewhat, but only to bring to her the consciousness 
that she was past mortal aid. 

“Poor, dear Mrs. Smith, what can we do for you?” 
asked Lois as she bent above her in pitying distress. 

The big blue eyes, full of pain, looked into hers for a 
moment; then, with an effort, she said, “Tell — my 
— boy — never — touch — ” A shudder passed over 
her, drops of moisture came out on her white cold 
forehead, she closed her eyes, and the girls thought 
she had fainted. 

They were bathing her face, in a growing terror, when 
Sam came hurrying back, driving the now quiet horses, 
to where Lois sat holding reverently the poor, broken 
body of his mother. The frightened faces lifted to his 
told more plainly than words their fear that the King 
of Terrors had claimed his mother. 

He would not believe it at first, but wildly chafed her 
hands, repeating over and over, “ She has only fainted. 
She has only fainted. Oh, what do they do for people 
when they faint?” 

“Go quick, Katie, for Mother,” Lois said, while she 
continued to bathe the cold face and Sam to chafe the 
cold, cold hands. 

Old Lucy came flying back with Mrs. Morgan in a 
few minutes. A hand on the heart and a moment of 


20 


%oii jHorton’s! SnbeStment 


listening for breath, then she said gently, “No, poor 
boy. Nobody can help her now,” and she and Lois 
strove to comfort him in his heart-breaking grief. 

The man, continuing to cling to the reins and looking 
stupidly at them, still sat in the wagon, and did not 
seem to realize what had happened. 


8 Shop’s promise 


n 


CHAPTER II 

3 loop’s promise 

Three days later one of the longest funeral proces- 
sions in the history of Elmwood Township slowly 
wound its way up the hill to Forest Rest cemetery. 
True, Mrs. Smith had not a wide acquaintance among 
these kindly people. The Smith family were not among 
the oldest settlers; their coming into Pleasant Hill 
District was comparatively recent. Mrs. Smith and 
her boy had been regular attendants at the little Sunday 
school and the occasional preaching services in Pleasant 
Hill school-house, and so had become favorably known 
to most of the families in the district; but “Old Sam 
Smith,” as he was called, had few acquaintances among 
the church-going people of the neighborhood. How- 
ever, the tragic ending of a life that had evidently seen 
much of unhappiness, and the leaving of a motherless 
boy to the uncertain care of a disreputable father, had 
aroused deep and widespread sympathy. 

The shock to Lois had been so terrible, and her 
sympathetic grief so great, that her mother had thought 
it best for her and Katie to remain at home. They had 
not talked much of the accident, in the Morton family, 
but Lois especially, the more imaginative of the two 
girls, had passed restless nights, and gone about her 
tasks in an absent-minded way that told the watchful 
mother plainly that her daughter’s mind was too much 


22 


Hots jttortcm’g Snbestment 


occupied with the tragedy. The fact was that for two 
days and far into the nights, Lois had been trying to 
think out a strange impression that had come to her. 
This dying mother’s message, given to her to deliver, 
seemed to Lois to put a responsibility on her that filled 
her with awe. She had the feeling that somehow she 
would be held accountable if Mrs. Smith’s boy should 
ever become* a drunkard. Yet this seemed so pre- 
posterous, or would have seemed so to her father and 
mother she was sure, that a girl of twelve like herself 
should become in any way responsible for the conduct 
or future life of a boy two years her senior, — one, too, 
who had no claims of family relationship, — that she 
found it impossible to confide her thoughts to any- 
one. Nevertheless, child though she was, she was 
deeply impressed with the feeling that in some mys- 
terious way Sam’s mother had handed her own re- 
sponsibility for her boy over to her, Lois, and trusted 
her with his destiny. She could not, probably, have 
put her thought into words if she had tried, but it 
remained a deep, abiding conviction. 

“Tell — my — boy — never — touch — ” She 
had repeated this message to the boy while she held 
his mother’s poor, lifeless head in her lap ; but wild 
with grief as he was, Lois doubted if he would remember 
what she had told him. “I must tell him again, soon,” 
she said to herself this morning. “She meant, poor 
lady, that Sam mustn’t ever touch the drink that has 
made his father what he is. I wonder if he ever has? 
I suppose it would be strange if his father hasn’t al- 
ready given him tastes of the stuff that he seems to have 


8 JSop’sf flromtec 


23 


always about him. Oh, if I can only make him realize 
how anxious his mother was that he should never, never, 
never touch it, then I’m sure he will be safe from ever 
being a drunkard.” 

Sadie Arnold came over to spend the day with Katie, 
and Katie and Sadie volunteered to watch the corn- 
field. Lois attended to various household tasks, and 
then, feeling restless and distraught, she wandered down 
to the river-bank, a favorite place of hers for day- 
dreaming. Here in the quiet coolness of the grassy 
bank, overshadowed by the interlacing arms of trees 
and the climbing, twining wild grapevine, which 
formed a little arbor, and lulled by the soft rippling of 
the water over the roots of the trees that grew on the 
low bank, she fell asleep. The perfume of wild flowers 
permeated the place and came as a healing balm to tired 
nerves. Butterflies flitted noiselessly about in the 
sunshine, bees hummed lazily, the twitter of birds and 
chirping of insects all mingled in a restful, soothing 
lullaby. The poor tired brain and aching heart, worn 
out with their first experience of the world-old mystery 
and pain and grief, came unerringly, as so many others 
have done before and since, to the mother who never 
fails to soothe and comfort. 

For two hours or more she slept ; then, suddenly, she 
was aroused by the sound of weeping and broken cries 
of “Mother! oh, Mother!” 

Lois sat up and glanced quickly around. Soon, on 
the other side of the river, she saw Sam’s pony, with its 
bridle carelessly thrown over a broken limb, and knew 
that the sounds that wrung her heart came from the 


24 


Hote jMortonte Snbestment 


little thicket of wild crab-apples opposite the place 
where she sat. Her first impulse was to go to him, 
but, instinctively, some thought of intruding on an- 
other’s grief came to her, and she questioned herself, 
“Would he like to have me?” Somehow, intuitively, 
she knew he would. “He has nobody to go to for 
comfort,” she told herself. She waited no longer to 
debate the matter, but swiftly running down stream a 
little way she crossed on a fallen log which spanned the 
river and came quietly and quickly to where Sam lay 
prone on the ground, with his face buried in his arms, 
sobbing dry, hard sobs that seemed to rend his very 
heart. If he heard her footsteps he evidently thought 
it was his dog, for he did not move or look up. Lois 
seated herself beside him without speaking, and began 
stroking his hair with a comforting hand. He turned 
his face and glanced up quickly, then buried it again 
in his arms and sobbed harder than before. Lois 
quietly went on, stroking softly the bowed head. 
Gradually the sobs ceased, and presently he said, 
“Lois, you are so good to me.” 

“I want to be,” she answered simply. 

“I felt like I hadn’t a friend in all the world till you 
came.” 

“Oh, but you have,” she replied quickly. “Every- 
body is sorry for you. But didn’t your aunt come? 
We heard she did.” 

“Yes, but I don’t know her very well. They say I 
am to go home with her. I’d rather stay here. I heard 
them saying I’d forget sooner, but I don’t want to for- 
get my mother,” and sobs choked his utterance again. 


a Slop’s! ^Promise 


25 


“Tell me about your mother,” suggested Lois 
presently. 

“ She was such a good mother, and I haven’t been as 
good a boy as I ought,” he said, sorrowfully. 

“I am sure you loved her and she knew it,” com- 
forted Lois. 

“Yes, she knew I loved her, but I’m afraid I made her 
unhappy a good many times when I didn’t mean to. 
I used to wake up at night sometimes and find her 
kneeling by the side of my bed, and when I put my 
arms about her to beg her to go to bed I often found 
her face wet with tears. She would say, when I asked 
her if I’d been naughty, ‘No, no. It isn’t you that 
makes me unhappy.’ I think she was unhappy about 
having to come west — so far from her own people. 
She had so many friends there. And I know of other 
things that made her sad.” 

“But tell me of some of your happy times with your 
mother. You had a good many, didn’t you?” 

He remained silent for several minutes, and Lois 
was beginning to think she had made a mistake to ask 
him about his happy times when he was feeling so sad. 

Finally he said, with a shadow of a smile : “ I think 
one of my happiest times was when I got my pony. I 
had been wanting one a long while, but Father said as 
long as I could ride any of his horses that I wanted to 
he didn’t see any need of my having a pony. But it’s 
different, you know, when you have something of your 
very own. We were at my grandfather’s back east, and 
it was my birthday. Mother usually gave me my 
presents first thing when I woke up, but that time she 


26 


%oii Jflotton’g Snbestment 


came in and kissed me 4 Good morning’ ; then she said, 
‘When you are dressed if you will look in the grass 
under the Bellflower tree at the foot of the* orchard I 
think you will find something you will like.’ Well, 
you can imagine it didn’t take me long to dress. Be- 
cause she said, ‘Look in the grass,’ I was expecting some 
small thing, rabbits maybe, and when I saw Dandy 
standing there all saddled and bridled, I just went 
wild.” 

His face was alight now with the happiness of his 
memories, and Lois was sure she had made no mistake. 

“Another happy time we had,” he went on presently, 
“was at my uncle George’s one summer when we 
camped out and went fishing. I had some cousins 
there, but my uncle and aunt and my mother seemed 
to have just as happy times as we boys did.” He was 
thoughtful for a minute, then he said slowly : “Mother 
and I always seemed to have our happiest times away 
from home. That is, our real funny times, I mean. 
At home she helped me with my lessons, and she could 
always make them interesting even when I declared 
they were dry as bones. She was a fine scholar, her- 
self, and she was always talking about my going to 
college sometime. I don’t ’spose I ever shall now; 
my father doesn’t seem to care about such things as 
my mother did,” he ended in a despondent tone. 

“Oh, yes, you must go to college. You must do 
everything your mother wanted you to, and,” very 
gently, “you must never do anything she didn't want 
you to.” 

Sam was silent and thoughtful for a few moments, 


3 JSop's: $romtee 


£7 


then he said, “Tell me again just what it was that she 
said, there on the prairie, right at the very last.” 

Very impressively Lois replied, “She said — and oh, 
how she must have loved you, and how very much she 
must have wanted you to know her last wish! — she 
said, ‘Tefi — my — boy — never — touch — ’ That’s 
all I could hear. She didn’t finish the sentence.” 

“She didn’t need to. You know what she meant, 
don’t you?” 

Lois nodded her head. 

“Yes, it was the cursed drink. If my father had let 
it alone I might still have ” His emotion over- 

came him again. 

Lois wanted to hear him say that he never would 
touch the awful drink. She felt she must have his 
promise. Presently, when he had controlled his 
emotion again, she said, “I know what answer you 
would have made your mother, but I wish she could 
have heard your promise never, never, never to touch 
the dreadful drink as long as you live.” 

“I’ll make it to you, now, and maybe she will know 
too. I promise mother, and you, that I will never 
touch a drop of intoxicating liquor as long as I live,” 
and he gravely held out his hand. Lois took it and 
they solemnly shook hands there in the fragrant wood. 
Lois held his hand while she hesitated for an instant, 
but only for an instant, then she leaned forward and 
kissed him on the forehead. “For your mother,” she 
said gravely, and as gravely he replied, “Thank you.” 


Hois! fttotton’s Snbejitment 


CHAPTER III 

8 jprouti Spirit ©umbleiJ 

“Grandma’s coming to visit us,” said Henry Morton 
to his daughters who had raced down the country road 
to meet him as he came home from town, about a year 
later than the events related in the previous chapter. 

“Oh, goody, goody!” said Katie as she hugged her 
father rapturously. 

“Well, I think it’s time she did,” remarked Lois, “if 
she cares anything about us. I guess if I had an eldest 
son I wouldn’t wait three years between visits when I 
lived only a hundred miles away.” 

“You know, Lois, she wrote that she wanted to come 
last year, but times were so hard that she couldn’t 
afford to.” 

“Now, Pa Morton, you know that if you had a big 
farm and hundreds of sheep and cattle and horses, and 
money in the bank besides, you would go to see your 
mother more’n once in three years.” 

Henry Morton did not reply to this impertinent 
speech. He saw too clearly the loving devotion that 
prompted it. Lois resented the seeming lack of af- 
fection on his mother’s part, but this mother of his 
did love him, in her own way, and he knew it. She 
came of a thrifty stock, and it was part of her religion 
to save money. Wastefulness and extravagance were 
heinous sins in her code of morals. A lack of “ faculty ” 


a Proub Spirit JEjumbleti 


29 


in her eldest son, by which term she meant business 
ability, was a great disappointment to her motherly 
pride. The rest of her seven sons were all “doing 
well,” but poor Henry, genial, generous, impulsive, 
likeable, somehow lacked the family trait of acquisitive- 
ness; his riches, so far, consisted of a sweet, gentle 
wife and four daughters. A small farm, with a large 
mortgage on it, in this new, middle-western state, 
afforded a bare living for his family, with nothing left 
over for luxuries. The luxuries they did not miss, as 
none of their neighbors, with one exception, were able 
to afford luxuries either. This one exception was “Old 
Sam Smith,” who had the largest farm in the valley, 
the biggest house and barns and the greatest herds of 
cattle. Moreover, he kept a “hired man” the year 
round, and, unheard-of extravagance, a negro house- 
servant — “Old Aunt ’Liza.” 

The luxuries of the Smith family were not envied by 
the Morton family. In the first place, the two families 
did not see much of each other. They lived on opposite 
sides of the river, in adjoining school districts. Lois 
and Katie attended the Happy Valley school, while the 
son and heir of “Old Sam Smith” was obtaining his 
education at the Pleasant Hill school. Furthermore, 
the two families moved in different ranks of society. 
Mary Hill Morton, sweet and gentle as she was, never- 
theless had a strength of character, inherited from a 
New England ancestry of educators and clergymen, that 
held, and compelled, her more easily influenced hus- 
band to the best that was to be had in the way of 
church privileges, educational facilities, and associa- 


30 


Hots; JHorton's Snbestment 


tions with people of moral standards ; while “Old Sam 
Smith’s” place, always looked at askance by the more 
respectable neighbors because of the disreputable asso- 
ciations of “Old Sam,” since his wife’s death was fast 
becoming the rendezvous of all the drinking, carousing 
men of the vicinity. Especially on Sunday, if his men 
and teams were not at work in the fields (as often 
happened), sounds of revelry could be heard and scenes 
of debauchery witnessed by the neighbors on their way 
to and from church and Sunday-school. 

The hospitable spirit of the Mortons was alert at 
the prospect of the promised visit. There was some 
longing for luxuries, too, especially on the part of Katie 
and Mrs. Morton. Henry Morton’s wife felt that his 
mother blamed her, partially, for her son’s lack of 
worldly advancement. She was not physically strong 
and could not care for several hundred chickens and 
turkeys each year, as “John’s wife” did, nor make fifty 
pounds of butter a week, as did “Richard’s wife.” 
Henry’s mother was always telling, approvingly, of how 
much money her other daughters-in-law made out of 
these and other industries. And once she had re- 
marked, “What a pity Lois couldn’t have been a boy! 
Henry needs more help on the farm.” This remark 
aroused Lois’ ire, and though her father had comforted 
her by declaring he wouldn’t trade her for ten boys, it 
still rankled a little. Now when Mrs. Morton re- 
marked, “I think we’ll have to kill some of the hens 
while Grandma is here, as the young chickens are not 
big enough to fry,” Lois declared, stoutly, “Don’t you 
do it, Mother. You need those hens for their eggs. 


& IJrcmb Spirit ^umbleb 


31 


Let Grandma eat corned beef, as we do ; she can have 
all the chicken she wants at home.” 

“Why, Lois, I am surprised at you,” said her mother, 
reprovingly. 

“Well, Mother, you know that Grandma herself 
would say it was ‘ shiftlessness’ to kill off your hens at 
this time of year, and she’ll think more of us if she 
knows we are economizing with corned beef,” defended 
Lois. 

“Yes,” reluctantly admitted Mrs. Morton, “I guess 
that’s true;” but she looked at her eldest daughter in 
surprise at the insight into character and the keen 
judgment displayed by this thirteen-year-old girl. 
“How fast she’s growing up,” she thought. 

Grandma’s habit of praising her other sons, her 
daughters-in-law and their children, was a little try- 
ing, to say the least. She probably did not mean it for 
a reflection on present company, but her manner of 
doing it had that effect. For instance, when her son 
Henry proudly recounted some accomplishment of one 
of his daughters, Grandma always matched it with 
something she considered just as “smart” that “your 
brother John’s oldest girl” did. Katie’s naive re- 
mark, “I wonder if we can’t fix up our room so that 
Grandma will think it is just as neat as Cousin Dora’s,” 
showed that she felt this, although she didn’t reason 
about it as Lois did. 

“We do keep our room just as neat as Cousin Dora 
does hers,” declared Lois. “Her straw air-castles and 
raveled-out-muslin fairy-baskets and the other foolish 
things she spends all her spare time making, catch a 


32 


Hois jWbrton’s 3fnbes<tment 


lot of dust. Anyhow, I don’t believe Dora can make 
any better bread pudding than yours nor any better 
corn bread than mine, and I’m wondering what Grand- 
ma will say when Pa tells her that you are in the fourth 
reader now and I am in the fifth. Dora hasn’t finished 
the third yet, and she’s six months older than I am.” 
All of which indicated that Lois had different standards 
from those of Grandma and Cousin Dora. 

Nevertheless, Lois’ pride and loyalty were aroused to 
show “Grandma ’’that her son Henry’s daughters were 
just as “smart” as the daughters of any of her other 
sons ; so she flew around helping with the scouring and 
cleaning, mending and polishing of the scanty furniture ; 
and the shabby house, that was always neat, took on 
an unwonted look of spick-and-spanness. 

“Grandma’s so neat and particular, you know; 
she’ll be sure to see any untidy corners ; so I want you 
girls to try real hard to help me keep the house clean 
and neat and yourselves tidy,” said Mrs. Morton to her 
small maids. 

“We will, Ma, won’t we, Lois?” said Katie, and 
added, “I want Grandma to like us. I wonder if 
she’ll bring us any presents?” she mused. 

“ ’Course she will. Don’t grandmas always bring 
presents?” piped up tiny Sarah Ellen. 

“Now, Sarah Ellen Morton, don’t you dare to hint 
a word about presents,” warned Lois. “Grandma’ll 
think we haven’t any manners.” But in the privacy 
of their own room, when two tired little girls were 
making ready for bed, Lois said to Katie, “Oh, I wish 


& Prouii Spirit ^umbleb 


33 


Grandma would bring me a new book,” and Katie said 
she was hoping for a hair-ribbon. 

Presents were rare events in the lives of these chil- 
dren, and, although no one “hinted,” Grandma’s bag 
was eyed eagerly, and much speculation was engaged 
in when Grandma wasn’t around, as to its contents. 

Grandma was not much given to caresses. You 
could not clamber into her lap and muss up her hair 
by bear-hugs, as you could your pa’s, but their loyal 
little hearts admired at a distance, and boasted to the 
neighbors : 

“She’s just the nicest grandma, — so talky and smily. 
She wears a real shiny silk dress too; she’s rich, you 
know. I ’spect she’s brought us some awful nice 
presents, but she hasn’t given them to us yet,” confided 
Katie to Sadie Arnold when she went over to Mrs. 
Arnold’s to borrow a cup of white sugar for Grandma’s 
tea. The Morton family used brown, which was 
cheaper. 

In the afternoon of the second day of Grandma’s 
visit she brought out her bag, remarking as she did 
so : “I have brought you children some little presents. 
Here’s a roll of pieces for Lois and Katie to put in their 
patchwork.” And as she spread them out : “This is a 
piece of your Aunt Emeline’s new calico dress; this 
is like your Cousin Elizabeth’s apron ; this is a piece of 
a new green sunbonnet I made for myself this spring ; 
and this is like your grandpa’s new hickory shirt. It 
isn’t very pretty for a quilt, but it will do to remember 
him by.” As she handed them to Lois she remarked ; 


34 


ILote jWorton'3 Snbestfment 


“I hope you will do as nice work on your patchwork as 
your Cousin Dora does on hers. And here, Mary, is a 
remnant of calico I bought cheap. There’s enough of 
it to make a dress for Sarah Ellen. It’s rather a large- 
flowered pattern for such a small girl, but it’ll be neat 
and serviceable. And here’s a ball I made for the 
baby out of your grandpa’s old socks. It took a good 
while to ravel them out and wind it, but the yarn wasn’t 
badly faded and it’ll soon be dirty anyhow.” 

Some very subdued “thank you’s” had been said as 
each child received its present. 

“You’re welcome,” said Grandma. “I always like 
to give presents to all the grandchildren when I go to 
visit. I’d like to have brought you something too, 
Mary, but crops were so poor last year, and times are 
pretty hard with us.” 

Out behind the shed kitchen Lois was stamping the 
piece of Grandpa’s shirt into the dirt and grinding it 
with her heel when Katie came around the corner. 

“Lois Columbia Morton!” she exclaimed in a 
frightened whisper. “What if Grandma should ask to 
see our block after we have it pieced?” 

“I don’t care!” exploded Lois, and stalked off to the 
orchard, where, perched in her favorite nook in the 
Talman Sweet tree, she read over for the fiftieth time 
her Little Corporal Magazine which she kept stored in 
a box there for times of trial like this. 

Katie carried the despised “piece” out to her play- 
house and with soap and water removed all traces of 
the indignities it had been subjected to. If some tears 
of disappointment fell into the soapsuds no one was 


a $rouiJ §?pmt Jjumbleb 


35 


any the wiser. Grandma was too old to remember how 
much trifles count in young lives. 

At breakfast on Sunday morning it was decided that 
all of the family, except Lois and Katie, should go to 
the Pleasant Hill school-house to hear the minister 
from town preach. Some one must watch that the 
neighborhood herd of cattle did not get into the corn- 
field. The rickety old fence, more rickety and di- 
lapidated than last year, offered the only obstruction 
to them. Henry Morton had not yet built the new 
fence he had talked about. Corn did not bring as good 
a price as he had hoped and there were more debts than 
he thought. He had had to use the money he had fully 
intended to pay to his small daughters, too, but they 
should surely have their side-saddle next fall. He had 
spent fifty cents, that was really needed for flour, to 
get a string of blue beads for Katie and a red-and- white 
carnelian ring for Lois. In his loving heart he felt that 
he must soften the disappointment about the side- 
saddle a little. It was a deep disappointment, but 
they did not murmur, and they did enjoy their baubles. 

They had forgotten all about that disappointment 
as they cheerfully flew around helping everybody to 
get ready for church this morning. At last they were 
off, and two merry-hearted girls turned back to the 
house, where a pile of breakfast dishes waited to be 
washed. 

It was a beautiful June morning, and all outdoors was 
calling them. 

“There’s no hurry about the dishes ; let’s go and see 
if the robin’s eggs are hatched yet,” and Lois led the 


36 


Hot a Norton's Snbestm ent 


way to the grove behind the house. After the robin’s 
eggs had been inspected to their satisfaction they each 
had to climb the highest cottonwood to look for the 
cattle. As they descended, so many wild violets lifted 
their faces, “just begging to be picked,” Katie said, 
that they just “had to” pick and arrange some bou- 
quets; then, getting some tumblers to put them in, 
brought them in range of the waiting dishes, so they 
resolutely attacked them and worked busily for fully 
two minutes, when a great cawing and cackling among 
the fowls made them rush out in time to see a large 
hawk sailing away with a peeping chicken in its claws. 
Nothing could be done about it, though Lois said if it 
hadn’t been Sunday she would have shot that hawk 
with her father’s shot-gun. Katie, knowing that Lois 
was quite equal to making the attempt and being very 
much afraid of guns herself, said, for her part she was 
perfectly willing to let the poor hawk have a chicken 
for his Sunday dinner. 

Once more back at the dishpan, Katie vowed she 
would not leave it again till all the dishes were washed. 
Lois’ tea-towel flew over the wet dishes briskly for a 
minute, then suddenly she heard a new bird-note and 
flew to the door to see what kind of a bird it could be. 
Through the branches of the maple by the back door she 
caught a glimpse of a gorgeous streak of orange-colored 
flame, and, plate in one hand, tea-towel in the other, 
she followed it through the garden into the orchard. 
The glorious June sunshine flooded the orchard, brought 
out the red and gold tints in her brown curls, the pink 
in her cheeks and the hazel light in her big brown eyes, 


8 $roufo Spirit l^umbleb 


37 


as, fascinated and eager, she followed the golden oriole 
from tree to tree in complete forgetfulness of all the 
world. At last, poising for a moment on the topmost 
twig of the Talman Sweet tree, he gave her a good 
chance to admire his black coat and gold vest; then 
with a long flight he disappeared in the neighboring 
field. 

Then Lois came back to earth and such sordid things 
as dishes. She noticed that the dripping plate she had 
brought with her was perfectly dry, although she had 
not touched the towel to it. This gave her an inspira- 
tion. She rushed back into the kitchen where Katie 
was just hanging up her dish-pan, and a big pile of 
dripping plates, cups and saucers were awaiting her. 

“Katie, I’ve got an idea,” she announced tri- 
umphantly. “ There isn’t a bit of use in my staying in 
this poky old house when the sun will dry these dishes 
as quickly as I could, and never mind it a bit. I’m 
just going to carry them all out and put them on the 
grass. Come and help me, that’s a dear; then we’ll 
go out in the orchard and I’ll play I’m your fairy god- 
mother and you can wish for things.” 

Katie had some misgivings about this innovation, but 
Lois convinced her of its value by declaring that the 
world’s advancement had been hastened by the people 
who found out new and easier ways to do things. 

Soon the church-goers returned home, accompanied 
by half a dozen friends and neighbors, as was the 
custom. Henry Morton’s hospitable nature was often 
a cause of considerable anxiety to his wife when the 
larder was only scantily supplied, but on this occasion 


38 


lioii Cotton's iubestment 


she had added two to the guests he had chosen. On the 
way home they had overtaken Sam Smith and Paul 
Stanton, a neighbor’s boy, who being on foot gladly 
accepted Henry Morton’s hearty invitation to “climb 
in.” As they neared the Smith place Mrs. Morton’s 
kindly heart went out to the motherless boy, and, 
thinking of the bad influences of his home, she de- 
cided to give him a few hours of something better. She 
gave both boys a cordial invitation to dinner, which 
they accepted with alacrity. 

Lois and Sam had seen each other occasionally, at 
church and school festivals and other neighborhood 
gatherings, but they had never had a confidential chat 
since their meeting in the crab-apple grove by the river. 
This meeting remained a secret with both, and both 
were thinking of it now, as, after Henry Morton’s 
jocular suggestion to the girls to “take the boys out to 
the grove and show them your playhouses,” they all 
four wandered out toward the grove. 

Paul Stanton lived on the same side of the river that 
the Mortons did, and attended the Happy Valley 
school; so he and the girls were on as intimate terms 
as his bashfulness would permit. Katie was hurrying 
him to the robin’s nest now, and Sam took this op- 
portunity to say, earnestly, “I’ve kept my promise, 
Lois.” 

“I’m glad,” she answered briefly. “I was sure you 
would.” 

As they came up to the tree Katie was saying, 
“Don’t you dare to touch them, boys, for they will 
not hatch if you do.” In a spirit of mischief Sam put 


8 $roub Spirit JSjutnblcb 


39 


his hand up to the nest and then in his pocket, pretend- 
ing to take one of the eggs. 

“You put that right back, Sam Smith!” cried Katie. 

Lois, who saw the mischief in his eyes, said quietly, 
“Oh, Katie, can’t you tell he’s just fooling?” But 
Katie could not be satisfied till Paul had climbed up 
again to assure her that the eggs were all there. 

In the chatter that followed about the playhouses 
Katie made some remark about Lois’ dolls, whose 
wardrobes she loved to fashion with her skillful fingers, 
and Sam at once begged to see them. Lois refused, and 
seated herself on top of the chest which held them. 

“I’ll pull her off if you’ll open the box and get out the 
infants, Paul,” he said hilariously, and snatched her 
hand. 

Paul glanced at Lois’ scarlet face and replied, quietly, 
“No, I don’t think I’d care for that kind of fun.” 

Sam began to realize that perhaps he was carrying his 
love of teasing too far, but the spirit of mischief pos- 
sessed him. Just then his glance fell on the little 
carnelian ring on the hand he had grasped, and he was 
reminded of his prophecy about the money for the side- 
saddle. “Let’s see your side-saddle,” he demanded. 

Lois was half -angry at him already, and this sug- 
gestion irritated her still further. She did not deign 
to reply. 

“We haven’t bought it, yet,” Katie answered tact- 
fully. 

With the same mocking smile on his handsome face 
that both girls remembered, Sam lifted the little 
brown hand that he still clasped tightly, and peering at 


40 


TLoiss Norton's Snbesitment 


the little ring he repeated in Lois’ scornful tones, “We 
shall not fritter it away on marbles and things ; ” then 
added laughingly, “Oh, no, we’ll buy rings and things.” 

“Oh, come on; let’s go and swing,” was Katie’s 
peace-making suggestion. 

“Birds in their little nests agree ” quoted Paul. 

Lois laughed, and led the way to the swing. 

Whoever has experienced the exhilaration of the 
long rushing flight through the air away up into the 
branches of the trees until the swing is almost level, 
then the backward sweep to gather force for a still 
higher flight, and finally the lessening flights while 
“letting the old cat die,” will understand that even a 
call to dinner may come too soon to hungry boys and 
girls. 

While Mrs. Morton had been getting dinner, and 
wondering audibly “where in the world those girls 
could have put so many of the dishes,” Grandma and 
the two women visitors had strolled out through the 
garden. Coming in through the back yard, Grandma 
stopped short and called, “O Mary, come here. I’ve 
found your dishes.” 

Lois had to explain the new departure at the dinner- 
table, and somehow it didn’t seem such a bright idea 
now, with Grandma, Pa and the visitors laughing so 
heartily and Ma looking so mortified. Loyal little 
Katie, thinking to help matters, told of Lois’ philosophy 
of “the world’s advancement,” but this set them all off 
into another gale of laughter, or all except Paul, who 
said, “When I visited my aunt in Chicago last spring 
she had just moved into a new house with all the 


& $rcmb ^ptrtt ^um&leb 


41 


modern improvements, and one of them was a rack over 
the sink in the kitchen, on which she placed her dishes 
to dry. She just poured hot water over them after 
they were washed, and left them. Never touched a 
towel to them at all.” 

This statement of the ways of city folks compelled 
the respectful attention of the company, and Lois gave 
Paul a grateful glance ; but she knew Grandma would 
set it down as “shiftlessness,” one of the greatest sins 
in Grandma’s code, and that Sam would tease her for 
weeks about the “world’s advancement.” 


42 


Hots Jtlorton’s Snbestment 


CHAPTER IV 

©ill attfc Vallep Content 

It was a glorious winter evening. The full moon was 
flooding the snowy world with her radiance. The stars 
all came a little nearer earth than usual to see the 
beautiful old planet in her purity, and to twinkle with 
delight at the loads of merry young people muffled to 
the ears in gay “comforters” and snowy-white “nu- 
bias” speeding over the creaking snow toward the 
Pleasant Hill school-house. 

Henry Morton’s big bob-sled held the largest and 
merriest crowd. Following it came single cutters 
holding tightly just two, invariably a youth and a 
maid, double cutters with two couples of kindred souls, 
and nondescript sleds with just a mixture of boys and 
girls, fathers and mothers. 

The Pleasant Hill school had challenged the Happy 
Valley school to a “spelling match,” and interest in the 
outcome ran high throughout the valley. A spelling 
match was an event that aroused as much interest in 
those days among the country dwellers, and as much 
enthusiasm, as the advent of a new star in grand opera 
did among their city cousins. 

The old red school-house was ablaze with light from 
the numerous kerosene lamps which had been borrowed 
for the occasion, when, with much stamping of snowy 


tyitt anti VaUep Contenb 


43 


feet, the Happy Valley crowd announced their arrival. 
The handsome young “master” of the Pleasant Hill 
school met and welcomed the pretty “school ma’am” 
of the Happy Valley school and her flock, wraps were 
quickly laid aside, and with much jesting and laughter 
all at last found seats or perched on top of the scarred, 
home-made wooden desks; then, with a quick tap of 
the little silver bell on top of his desk, Master Hender- 
son called to order. 

“Friends,” he said, “we are very glad to welcome 
you here tonight. Several days ago, as most of you 
know, this school sent a message challenging the Happy 
Valley school to a spelling match. We beg you to be- 
lieve that this challenge was sent in no spirit of bump- 
tious self-conceit, but simply in the interests of educa- 
tion and a spirit of friendly rivalry. If the Happy 
Valley pupils shall prove themselves the better spellers 
I believe you will still find the Hill school pleasant, in 
defeat; and I trust that if your Valley students shall 
be beaten, Miss Welch, they will still continue to be 
happy, as indeed they ought to be, so long as they have 
their happy-faced school ma’am left them.” 

There was a quick clapping of hands at this felicitous 
speech, and Miss Welch blushed prettily. The two 
teachers conferred together for a moment, and then 
Master Henderson announced: “Miss Welch and I 
have decided that the fairest test of your spelling will 
be to keep tally of the words missed on each side for 
half an hour, after which we will have a short recess 
and then we will ‘spell down.’ ” Another quick clap- 
ping indicated approval of this plan. 


44 


ICote dfWorton'g Snbesftment 


“Miss Welch, will you please name your tally- 
keeper?” asked Master Henderson. 

“I will ask Mr. Townsend to keep tally for our 
school,” replied Miss Welch; and that gentleman, a 
Valley dweller, replied that he would do so. 

Then Master Henderson said, “I will ask Mr. 
Fletcher also to keep tally,” this being quite the custom 
and no reflection on Mr. Townsend’s honesty. A boy 
belonging to the Hill school handed each gentleman a 
slate and pencil, and Master Henderson further an- 
nounced : “In order to avoid any suspicion of favoritism. 
Miss Welch and I have requested Mr. Hazelbaker, a 
gentleman from the East who is visiting friends in the 
neighborhood, and is a stranger to both schools, to 
pronounce the words to be spelled.” 

Mr. Hazelbaker arose from a front seat and a spelling- 
book was handed to him. A hundred pairs of eyes were 
at once fastened on him. 

“Looks pleased with his job, doesn’t he?” whispered 
Sam Smith across the aisle to Lois. 

She nodded, smilingly. 

“Now,” said Master Henderson, “the Hill school 
will please take these front seats on the right and the 
Valley school these on the left.” Whereupon ensued a 
great shuffling about, some whispering and giggling as 
some of the boys tried to sit in the same seat with a 
favorite among the girls and were unceremoniously left 
in lonely possession. Soon, however, all were seated 
and quiet reigned. Then came the request to number. 
This being done, it was found that the Hill school was 


©ill anb ^Jallep Contenb 


45 


represented by two more pupils than the Valley school. 
Immediately two boys offered to drop out, and by so 
doing advertised themselves as poor spellers. A smile 
went round. “Very well,” said the Master, and he did 
not realize what a sense of satisfaction was expressed 
by his cheerful readiness to excuse them, till a broader 
smile went round. The two boys sought a back seat, 
with red faces and a “don’t care” swagger. 

“All ready, Mr. Hazelbaker,” announced the Master, 
and Mr. Hazelbaker cleared his throat and began with 
“baker.” 

“Baker,” pronounced ’Manda Jones, and spelled 
it “b-a ba, k-e-r ker, baker,” carefully pronouncing 
each syllable and again pronouncing the word after 
she had spelled it. This was the very careful and 
painstaking way in which boys and girls were taught 
to spell in the middle West in the time of the sixties and 
seventies. It is true that Mr. Hazelbaker did not give 
the final “r” its full value according to Western stand- 
ards, but ’Manda brought it out with a roll. This was 
another custom of these Western teachers — no letter 
might be slighted. As the spelling went on each word 
was given respectful handling, and when the pupil was 
through with it there was no doubt left in the listener’s 
mind as to what the word was, just how many syllables 
it contained, and exactly what the letters were that 
made up those syllables. True, this method of spelling 
consumed considerable time, especially when Mr. 
Hazelbaker reached the column beginning with “cir- 
cumambient” and Sam Smith spelled it in this fashion ; 


46 


ILoix Motion* £ Snbesrtment 


“ Circumambient : C-i-r cir, c-u-m cum, circum, a-m 
am, circumam, b-i bi, circumambi, e-n-t ent, circum- 
ambient.” 

The long words in the old “Sanders’ Speller” were 
not the hardest words, however, but the treacherous 
short words with the silent letters. Mr. Hazelbaker 
had reached these, and the alert youngsters were go- 
ing carefully when he pronounced “stalk” to Lois 
Morton, — at least that was the way it sounded. Lois 
was cautious, however, and pronounced it after him 
questioningly, “stalk?” 

“Yes, stalk,” he announced again. 

“Stalk : s-t-a-l-k stalk,” she spelled. 

“No. Next.” 

Sam Smith was “next,” and he spelled it triumph- 
antly, “Stock: s-t-o-c-k stock.” 

“Next — stalk, stalk,” with a lengthening of the 
broad “a” sound. 

Next, on the Happy Valley side, was one of 
Mr. Hazelbaker’s nieces, who promptly pronounced 
“stork,” and spelled it “s-t-o-r-k stork.” 

“Correct,” said Mr. Hazelbaker, and proceeded, 
calmly unmindful of the scornful flash from a pair of 
indignant brown eyes, and the mocking smile on a 
handsome, boyish face on the other side of the house. 

“Time’s up,” was announced soon after this, and 
the result of the tally asked. 

A moment of intense suspense, then Mr. Townsend 
announced, “Happy Valley school missed sixteen, 
Pleasant Hill school, seventeen.” 

“Correct,” said Mr. Fletcher. “I have the same.” 


J&ill anb Galley Contenb 


47 


A modern school would have been ready with some 
rigmarole of, “Rah! Rah! Rah! Hear that tally! 
Vic-to-ry, for Happy Valley,” but this old-time school 
bore their honors much more modestly, with simply a 
lively clapping of hands, in which visitors from both 
districts joined. 

Recess was full of excited talk and good-natured 
banter. Sam Smith sauntered over to where Lois 
stood, surrounded by a group of sympathizing friends, 
and drawled in his mocking voice, “Good evening, 
Lois. Did you see that flock of storks (pronouncing it 
staks) that alighted on the river-bank this evening?” 

The flush of indignation at Mr. Hazelbaker still 
lingered on Lois’ face, but she caught the humor of his 
remark at once, and smiled as she replied, “No; all I 
saw was a stalk still standing in the corn-field and the 
stock that were eating it.” 

“Well, we evened things up for our schools by both 
missing the same word; but say, we don’t want any 
Easterner pronouncing words when we spell down, do 
we?” 

“No, indeed! Let’s protest,” and forthwith a rush 
was made for Miss Welch and Mr. Henderson. 

These two were already in consultation on the same 
topic. Each had felt keenly the very unnecessary 
mortification of a favorite pupil, and realized that a 
change must be made. Before either could make reply 
to the impetuous demands, a stir near the door at- 
tracted the attention of all, and a glance of relief 
passed between the two teachers as they noted the 
arrival of the county superintendent, 


48 


Hote jWortonte Snbetftment 


“Yes, I heard of your spelling match, and came out 
to enjoy the fun.” 

He readily consented to pronounce for them, and 
Mr. Hazelbaker relinquished the spelling-book grace- 
fully when Miss Welch explained who the new-comer 
was. 

The bell gave three sharp taps and the house came to 
order. 

“The Valley school will please range themselves in 
the aisle to the right, standing, and the Hill school to the 
left,” Master Henderson gave orders. 

There was an alacrity in doing this that gave proof 
of the eagerness for the fray. Master Henderson then 
announced, proudly, “I have the honor tQ present to 
you Professor Coleridge, our County Superintendent 
of Schools, who will pronounce for you.” 

Professor Coleridge made a little speech expressing 
his interest in education in general and spelling in 
particular, and concluded by announcing that he would 
present the winner in this contest with a Webster’s 
High-school Dictionary. 

This added interest to the contest and strained the 
already tense nerves a notch higher. There were many 
who were having a hard time to obey the warning of 
older friends to “keep cool.” 

“What is the use of letting Sam Smith have that 
dictionary? You can take it back to Happy Valley if 
you keep your head, Lois,” encouraged Paul Stanton, 
who stood next to Lois. 

“You could win it yourself if you wouldn’t get 
embarrassed, Paul,” she whispered back. 


j&ill anti Galley Content! 


49 


“What is the page?” asked the Professor of ’Manda 
Jones, who stood at the head of the line on the right, 
as he held up a book with one finger closed tightly 
between the leaves. This was for the purpose of 
determining which side should have the first word. 

“Fifty-seven,” hazarded ’Manda. 

He turned and held it toward Jack Winter, at the 
head of the line on the left. 

“Sixty- three,” guessed Jack. 

Professor Coleridge held the opened book for Miss 
Welch to see. “Sixty-six,” she announced. 

Then the Superintendent in a full, clear voice, threw 
in ’Manda’s direction the simple word, “daily.” 

’Manda’s pulses were bounding with the unwonted 
excitement of spelling for a prize, and her high-pitched, 
nervous voice hurriedly responded with, “Daily : d-a-y 
day, 1-y ly, daily.” 

The Professor paused, surprised, sorry, but there was 
no mistaking that “y,” and very reluctantly he said, 
“Next,” and Jack Winter spelled it correctly. ’Manda 
sank into the nearest seat, her face red with mortifica- 
tion and her eyes suspiciously bright. Happy Valley 
had made a bad beginning. 

The next word was Lois Morton’s. Lois’ head was 
cool and she spelled deliberately and correctly. Con- 
fidence was restored by the very tones of her voice. 

Clearly and distinctly the words bounded from the 
professor — first to one side, then to the other, only to 
be caught and held by correct spelling all down each 
side of the house. Before starting at the head again 
he turned several pages. 


50 


ILoi# Motion*# 3nbe£tment 


“Biscuit.” 

Lois knew how to spell biscuit as well as to make 
them. 

“Picnic.” 

Jack Winter ended it with a “k” and it was tossed 
back to the other side, where Paul spelled it correctly. 

“Lettuce.” Sam Smith was now at the head of the 
Hill column, and lettuce could not knock him down. 

“Scissors,” cut down three in quick succession. 

The second round left “ten on the Hill-side and 
eleven in the Valley,” as Paul facetiously remarked in 
a whisper to Lois. 

Another turning of leaves; then, “Bass, the lowest 
part in music.” The professor had got over to “defini- 
tions,” that bete noir of many pupils. Lois liked 
“definitions” and spelled confidently. 

The third round mowed them down to five on a side. 

The fourth left three Pleasant Hillers still pleasant 
but somewhat anxious, and two Happy Valleyites, — 
Paul, beginning to be embarrassed at his prominent 
position, and Lois, not exactly happy, but hoping she 
would be soon. 

“Fuchsia” proved too much for one Hill dweller. 

“Seneschal,” puzzled Paul, and the longer he con- 
sidered it the more confused he became. “Sene- 
schal : C-e-n cen, e-s es, cenes, s-h-a-1 shal, sene- 
schal,” was the hesitating, uncertain way he got through 
it. It was some consolation to Paul that the fellow on 
the other side missed it too. Lois spelled it correctly. 

Now only Lois on one side and Sam on the other 
confronted each other, and interest was at fever heat. 


mi anb Wlep Contenb 


51 


“Measles, rheumatism, phthisis, pneumonia ” 

Lois and Sam passed safely through all these dread 
diseases. 

“Circingle, chrisophrase, lorgnette,” — still both spell 
confidently and easily. 

“Charivari.” 

Sam hesitates, attacks it valiantly, comes through 
with one “r” too many. 

Slowly and compassionately the professor pronounces 
his doom in the single word, “next.” 

Lois starts in confidently, stops, starts again, and 
finally ends with, “double e.” 

“Wrong,” says the professor cheerfully. Professor 
Coleridge is not lacking in chivalry in most instances 
where it is called for, but in educational matters he 
likes to see his sex hold its own, or a little better. 

“I am very much at a loss how to award this prize,” 
he said. “Sorry I haven’t two dictionaries. Shall 
these young people draw cuts, or how shall we decide?” 
he appealed to the audience. 

“Let them own it in common and take turns using 
it,” suggested Mr. Hazelbaker. 

A clapping of hands indicated that this suggestion 
met with the approval of the crowd, so the professor 
made a neat little speech and gave the dictionary into 
Lois’ keeping “for a month,” at the end of which time 
it was to be given by her to Sam for the same length of 
time. 

Lois and Sam received the hearty congratulations of 
their friends, and in the hubbub Sam mischievously re- 


52 


3Cote ifHorton’s Snbesttment 


marked to Lois, “Say, Lois, I’ve fully and freely for- 
given Mr. Hazelbaker. He’s a brick.” 

As Lois and Katie were getting ready for bed that 
night, Katie said, “Lois Morton, I don’t see how you 
could have missed that word ; you spelled it right, at 
home, just this very morning. You must have been 
flustrated.” 

“No, I wasn’t ‘flustrated.’ ” 

Something in her tone arrested Katie’s attention, 
and she looked at her sister sharply. “Do you mean 
that you missed it on pur — ” 

“Yes, I missed it all right,” Lois interrupted, and 
hurriedly blew out the light. 

Katie thought her own thoughts, but she made no 
further remarks. 


Secrete 


53 


CHAPTER V 

Secrets; 

Such a fluttering of ribbons! Such a preening and 
prinking before the little four-by-five-inch mirror in the 
hall of the Happy Valley school-house! No one had 
slept very well. How could they, with every head 
covered with tight little wads of hair and paper? But 
you never would have suspected it, for the blue eyes, 
black eyes, gray eyes and brown eyes were as bright 
as a robin’s, and the animated faces under every curly 
thatch were as fresh and rosy as a newly-opened rose- 
bud on a June morning. 

This unanimity of curly heads on the girls’ side was 
a puzzle to Mrs. Patrick Welch, the teacher’s mother, 
who was among the honored visitors at this last day of 
school. 

“Sure thin, did yez iver see the loikes iv so many 
gurruls, ivery wan with the most beautiful currels, as 
Marthy has in her school?” she remarked to Mrs. 
Stanton, one of the visiting mothers. 

Mrs. Stanton had seen these same curly pates when 
the hair on them was as straight as an Indian’s, but 
she only smiled as she replied, “They are bright, nice- 
looking girls.” Her glance wandered, however, to the 
boys’ side, and rested lovingly on a tall, brown-eyed 
lad whose straight, glossy black hair framed a frank, 
pleasant face. He did not see the motherly pride in 


54 


ICote jfWorton'tf Snbetftment 


her glance, however, as his timid brown eyes rested with 
boyish admiration on the pink-ribbon bow perked on 
one side of Lois Morton’s curly brown head. 

Paul Stanton’s admiration for Lois Morton was an 
open secret, and the teasing of his schoolmates on ac- 
count of it was a source of much bashful agony. Lois’ 
cool, outspoken appreciation of his scholarship saved 
her from the same teasing, and she would have been 
frankly friendly with him were it not for his extreme 
bashfulness. She could not help a little feeling of con- 
tempt for his lack of courage; at the same time it 
flattered her girlish vanity that she was the cause of 
such faintness of heart. A spirit of mischief had 
prompted her, the day before, to ask Paul at recess if 
he did not want to “wish on” her ring, a privilege he 
never would have had the courage to ask, and the 
remembrance of his blushes and trembling fingers, as 
he placed the little red-and-white carnelian ring back 
on her finger, brought the mischievous smiles to her 
eyes every time she had looked at him since. Now as 
he sat devouring her with his eyes and remembering 
those same mischievous smiles, he was wondering how 
in the world he was ever going to tell her, as he must, 
what his wish had been. “Till tomorrow noon,” had 
been the length of the magical spell in which she was 
to guard the ring jealously lest any chance should re- 
move it from the little brown third finger of her left 
hand, and thus prevent the wish from coming true. A 
vague thought of the possibility of her having taken 
the ring off and deliberately broken the spell came to 
him, but she had promised to keep it on till tomorrow 


Secrete 


55 


noon, and Lois always “played fair.” He knew he 
must tell her, and — it was such a daring wish! How 
should he ever have the courage to tell her ! The very 
thought of it made him blush. 

With everybody showing off their proficiency in the 
three R’s, the forenoon passed quickly. One tap of 
the bell — a great shuffling of books and slates ensued 
as every desk was cleared. Two taps — fifty boys and 
girls of all ages stood facing the door. Three taps — 
pandemonium was let loose and noon was here. 

It was an exceedingly lively time for everybody. 
While the youngsters romped on the playground the 
mothers set out the picnic dinner on hastily arranged 
tables. Everybody was in high spirits. 

In the midst of a game of “Black man” as the big 
boys and girls stood together, at one end of the play- 
ground, waiting for the ominous warning, “the black 
man’s coming,” Lois suddenly said to Paul, who stood 
beside her, “Paul, the time’s up. What did you 
wish?” 

Tell her before this crowd? Impossible! He shook 
his head. “Tell you by-and-by,” he called back 
bravely as he made a rush to escape the “black man.” 
But he did not hunt any chance to tell her, and in the 
unwonted excitement she forgot all about it. 

More visitors arrived to witness the literary exercises 
of the afternoon, among them some of the boys of the 
Pleasant Hill school, which had closed a week earlier. 
The school-house was crowded to its utmost seating 
capacity, visitors and pupils sitting three in a seat. 
Paul Stanton shared his seat with Sam Smith and an- 


56 


Hots! Jtlorton’si Snbestment 


other Pleasant Hill boy. In looking through Paul’s 
books Sam noticed the letters “L. C. M.” in several 
places, and asked him, apparently very innocently, 
what they stood for. 

“Just a memorandum of something I wanted to re- 
member,” said Paul; but his blushes gave the true 
answer, for Sam was not unfamiliar with that com- 
bination of letters himself. 

The pupils “spoke their pieces,” sang their songs and 
gave their dialogues in a manner that reflected credit 
on their teacher, but the crowning feature of the after- 
noon programme was the reading of the school paper, 
“The Happy Valley Record,” by Lois Morton and Paul 
Stanton, who, being generally accredited the foremost 
pupils in scholarship, were given the honor of being 
the editors of this annual. 

Teacher and pupils were proud of these two repre- 
sentatives of the. school. The picture they made as 
they stood before the school today was surely a pretty 
one. Paul’s black hair had a gloss like a raven’s wing — 
the other boys guyed him unmercifully about it, as it 
was well known that, big boy as he was, his mother 
still brushed his hair. There was a flush on his cheeks 
that showed faintly through the tan, and his timid 
brown eyes wandered to the window, or were resolutely 
fastened on the page before him. But he stood sturdily 
straight in his well-fitting, spick-and-span suit of 
brown and his faultless linen, and many others than his 
mother bent admiring looks upon him. Among the 
visiting boys there was one whose mocking glance was 
evidently intended to disconcert the hero of the hour, 


Secrete 


57 


and probably would have done so if the said hero, 
knowing his weakness, had not been too wise to look 
in his direction. 

As for Lois, she stood frankly aware of their admira- 
tion, and frankly enjoying it in her modest way. Her 
oval face, shaded and framed in the shining brown curls, 
was aglow with a wild-rose flush as pink as the perky 
ribbon bow in her hair, her big brown eyes were full 
of a laughing excitement, her lithe young body in its 
plain gown of dark green delaine still further em- 
phasized the wild-rose idea, although there was neither 
art nor artfulness in the planning of the gown. 

The joy that these human flowers bring into the 
world is not all for the owners of the little gardens in 
which they grow. The hearts of the world-worn and 
weary are refreshed every day by the fresh young 
beauty of school-girls and the charm of these girl- 
worshipping boys. 

At first they stood far apart, Paul holding one side 
of the paper in his left hand and Lois the other side in 
her right; gradually, however, Paul edged nearer as 
the reading went on — jokes on this pupil and that, 
the intimate, trivial personalities that go to make up 
the school annual — till, as Lois was finishing the school 
prophecy which gave the final touch and made every- 
one happy with its wonderful predictions for the future, 
she felt a nervous hand touch her left hand which was 
hanging by her side, and a folded paper was thrust into 
her palm. Her fingers closed over it as she made her 
final bow, and in the shelter of her desk it was trans- 
ferred to her pocket, — for this all took place in the 


58 


Hots; Motion*# Snbestfment 


halcyon days of pockets. It was such an unheard-of 
thing for Paul to give a note to any girl, that her 
curiosity was piqued to the utmost. Still she dared 
not make any attempt to read it till safe in the 
privacy of her own room. 

“It’s your turn to have the dictionary again,” and 
Sam Smith handed it to her in the hall as she was put- 
ting on her hat. “Don’t lay it away and forget all 
about it, now that school is out,” he added with a mean- 
ing glance. 

Did you think that telepathy is something new? 
Why, bless your heart! were you never a sentimental 
school girl, or boy? Lois knew as well as if Sam had 
said the words, “I have written something in there for 
you to read,” that she would find a message in its 
pages. She also knew the nature of the message. She 
dared not open the book to look for it on the way 
home, however, knowing full well that if a note were 
hidden between its leaves it was more than likely to 
become common property, as the first boy to catch a 
glimpse of it would consider it his privilege to snatch 
it and read it aloud to the crowd. 

At home she hurried to the upper room which she and 
Katie shared, and there she opened and shook the 
book, looked through its leaves quickly, but could find 
nothing that had the semblance of a note. She was 
beginning to grow indignant and was just saying to 
herself, “ It was just to tease me he said that,” when she 
noticed some penciled figures here and there as she 
turned the leaves. “It’s a puzzle,” she thought, and 
set to work to decipher it. It did not take her long to 


Secrete 


59 


observe that the figure “ 1 ” was opposite the letter 
“I,” “2” was close to “1,” “3” by “o,” “4” by "v ” 
“5” by “e,” and “y,” and “o,” and “u,”— it was 
hardly necessary to hunt the “6, 7, and 8.” 

Of course she knew it. Had known it for a year or 
more, but like every other woman, large or small, it 
was a beautiful, soul-satisfying moment when she 
found it spelled out so plainly. Whether she returns 
it or not, it is a very poor specimen of a woman who is 
not made larger and sweeter by the knowledge that 
some man loves her. So it was a small girl with a new 
beauty, a softening, sweetening, beautiful look on her 
face, who closed the book and opened the bureau 
drawer to lay it away. The next moment, however, 
she snatched up an eraser and quickly rubbed out all 
those penciled figures. There must be no chance of 
anyone else reading the beautiful secret. 

The thought of it as a secret reminded her that she 
had another secret in her pocket. It seemed to be a 
good day for secrets. Quickly drawing it forth she 
unfolded the crumpled paper and read : 

“ Dear Lois : My wish was that I might kiss you sometime. 

Paul.” 

Lois’ expressive face showed first, surprise, then a 
little, bubbling laugh broke from her lips, as she 
whispered, “He’d never dare.” After reading it again 
she sat absently gazing out of the window for several 
minutes, then arose, and, with a tender smile hovering 
about her mobile mouth, she opened the top bureau 
drawer and in a little pink heart-shaped box she care- 


60 


KLoi# Motion*# 3nb estment 


fully laid away the little wistful note, and buried it 
under the handkerchiefs in her sandal-wood handker- 
chief box which had been Grandmother Hill’s and was 
her chiefest treasure. 


©ntoelcome humors 


61 


CHAPTER VI 

Htttoelcomc humors 

“What honor do you suppose Mrs. Pierce is wanting 
to bestow upon your humble servant?” and Lois looked 
up smilingly from the letter she was reading. 

“That’s easy. She wants you for Columbia in the 
wagon of states at the Fourth-of-July Picnic. You’ll 
make a beautiful one, too,” Katie ended emphatically. 

“Thank you for the compliment. How did you 
know?” 

“Just as if this picnic hasn’t been the principal topic 
of conversation for a month. Our class has had three 
meetings at the home of Mrs. Pierce and discussed 
all the available girls. At the very first meeting Mrs. 
Pierce asked me when you would be home, and I 
guessed in a minute that she wanted you for Columbia. 
You see that is the place of honor, and since you have 
been away from home so long no one is going to be 
jealous if you have first place. The rest — the states, 
I mean — are all on a level. It’s just a matter of in- 
dividual choice, only nobody wants to be Kansas. I 
think I know who’s going to be ‘Uncle Sam,’ too.” 

“Who?” 

“Well, I’m not exactly sure, but I think it will be 
Paul Stanton.” 

“Oh, my! Paul must have got over his bashfulness 


62 


Hote iWortonte Snbestfment 


wonderfully well if he is willing to be the only boy in a 
wagon-load of girls,” and Lois laughed merrily. 

“Oh, he won’t be the only one. You see there’s to 
be Uncle Sam and Columbia up in front, and just be- 
hind them a group of soldier-boys in blue, holding the 
flag. I suppose that was planned more to support 
Uncle Sam than for decorative effect, but I think it 
will look pretty too, don’t you?” Lois nodded. “Then 
in the long seats behind will be the girls representing 
the states. My! won’t we have a load?” 

“Yes, a jolly big one. Oh, I am so glad to be home 
again! But I haven’t finished reading my letter.” 
She turned the page and read aloud : “The committee 
has selected Sam Smith to represent Uncle Sam ” 

“Sam Smith!” ejaculated Katie. “Are they crazy? 
He’ll never in the world do it!” 

“But listen a minute,” and Lois went on reading. 
“At first he refused, but when he learned that you 
were to be asked to represent Columbia he agreed to 
consent if you did. So don’t fail us, my dear.” 

“Well, Lois Columbia Morton, I just wouldn’t if 
I were you. Sam Smith!” she repeated scornfully. 

“Lois’ brown eyes flew open wide with astonish- 
ment. “What’s come over you, Katie?” she asked 
wonderingly. “ Why not Sam Smith ? And I thought 
you were so pleased a moment ago because they wanted 
me.” 

“ I do want you to be it — her,” she corrected herself — 
“but not with Sam Smith for Uncle Sam. No, in- 
deed!” 

“ Why not ? What’s wrong with Sam ?” 


33ntoelcome &umor£ 


63 


“Oh, he never goes in our crowd any more. He is 
never invited to any of our parties and things,” Katie 
said, in an evasive tone. 

“But why isn’t he invited?” Lois persisted. 

“Well, I think he doesn’t care about the kind of 
times we have, and — and — well, it isn’t that he doesn’t 
dress as well as any of the boys, but — his manners 
are not quite what we expect, and — well he never is 
invited,” Katie ended lamely. 

“Now look here, Kate Morton, you know that I 
know that you haven’t given me the real reason yet 
why Sam Smith is not invited to the Happy Valley 
parties. Out with it.” 

“Well, I never like to say anything about it, be- 
cause I really don’t know whether the stories are true 
or not, but, Lois dear, we hear dreadful stories about 
fights and drunken carousals at Old Smith’s, and Sam 
is seen so often in the company of low fellows like Ike 
Wilson and Jim Prouty. I think you’d better not sit 
up there with him, Lois, I really do. What if he should 
come to the picnic drunk?” 

Lois’ face was full of shocked surprise for an instant, 
then an incredulous, scornful smile curled her lip as she 
replied with some heat, “Kate Morton, you know he 
couldn’t do a thing like that! If none of you ever 
invite him how does he have any chance to mingle in 
the Valley’s best society? Of course we all know his 
father’s reputation, but why shouldn’t Sam have a 
chance to prove his fitness for better society than his 
father keeps? Young men like Sam, with no mothers 
or sisters to help them, I fancy often drift into associa- 


64 


Hote jWortonte Snbestment 


tions that do them no good, simply because they must 
have social life and don’t know how to find the best. 
I’ve made up my mind, Katie, and I shall write Mrs. 
Pierce that I shall be very much pleased to be Columbia 
for a day.” 

Lois was at home after a four-years absence at school. 
An aunt in a distant state had generously offered to 
give her the advantage of an academy in the eastern 
town in which she lived, and Lois had gratefully ac- 
cepted the offer. As neither Henry Morton nor the 
kind-hearted aunt could afford the money for railroad 
fare necessary for the long trips home at vacation- 
time, it came about that Lois stayed away till she 
had completed her four-years course. 

Sam Smith had also been at school. His school was 
not far away, and while the Happy Valley folks had 
not seen much of him in his vacations at home, there 
were many and various rumors, one of the most per- 
sistent being that he was following in the footsteps of 
his father and had been seen more than once under the 
influence of drink. 

Happy Valley had none of the easy tolerance of this 
custom which obtained in some localities at this time. 
On the contrary, its men were so universally free from 
the habit of drink, and it was so unusual for the Valley 
children to see a drunken man, that there had grown 
up a sentiment, among the young folks at least, that a 
man who drank was quite outside the pale of decent 
society. The tragic death of Mrs. Smith had intensi- 
fied this sentiment till it became a horror in the minds 
of many. 


®ntoeIcome humors 


65 


“I didn’t like to tell you,” Katie was saying, “be- 
cause I know that you felt sure that Sam never would 
yield to the temptation to drink ; and I knew it would 
be a shock to you to hear the rumors that he is fre- 
quently seen quite under the influence of it.” 

“Kate Morton, do you believe all the rumors you 
hear? I assure you that I do not. And if you young 
folks have been shutting Sam out of your good times 
just because ‘they say’ this, and ‘they say’ that, then I 
think the whole lot of you are contemptible.” And 
Lois flung out of the house and rushed out to her refuge 
in the old Talman Sweet tree, her heart full of a name- 
less dread, but saying over and over, under her breath, 
“He didn’t! I don’t believe it! Why, it would be im- 
possible! He couldn’t lift a glass to his lips without 
seeing the poor dead face of his mother, and thinking 
of her last message to him. Oh, he did’t ! He couldn’t ! 
He didn’t! He couldn’t!” she repeated over and over. 

Lois had not seen Sam since her return, and a vague 
sense of disappointment had been with her because he 
had not at once come over to see her. They had ex- 
changed letters, quite frequently at first, lately not so 
often, during the four years of her absence ; letters full 
of school news mainly, not at all what one could call 
love-letters. The dictionary message had been the 
only expression of his regard for her. It had seemed 
to make them both self-conscious, — to bring to her a 
bashfulness and to him an awkardness that neither 
had felt before. She had sent no answering message, 
in words, but the dictionary, when she returned it by 
her father, had contained only a leaf of rosemary and 


66 


ICote Norton's Snbestment 


a pressed pansy between its pages. “There’s rosemary, 
that’s for remembrance ; I pray you, love, remember ; 
and there is pansies, that’s for thoughts,” had been in 
her mind when she put them there. Since she had once 
attempted a character-reading of poor Ophelia at the 
Valley “Literary” she hoped he would remember this 
sentiment, and that the leaf of rosemary would recall 
his promise so solemnly made in the crab-apple thicket, 
and the pansy would tell him that she had a tender 
thought of him. And then the little dictionary had 
made no more trips between them, and carried no more 
messages, because Lois went to New York. 

In her place of refuge in the old apple tree Lois was 
thinking of all this, and trying vainly to understand 
the restraint that had come into their correspondence. 
She had missed, in his letters, the frank, honest friend- 
liness of the boy she had known, but she had told her- 
self that it was because he was unaccustomed to writ- 
ing letters. Now, suddenly, she wondered whether 
what she had missed in the letters was because of 
something that had really come into his life that he 
would not want her to know — the kind of things Katie 
had told her about — “Oh, no! no! I cannot, I will 
not believe it.” But, though she said it over and over, 
she could not get rid of the weight that pressed on her 
heart. She knew too well the kindly-hearted people 
of the neighborhood. It was no malicious gossip. If 
such things were being said they were said in sadness, 
and those who said them were genuinely sorry they had 
such news to tell. It was possible, though, that they 
had been mistaken, “Boys act so queerly at times. 


©ntoelcome 3kumor£ 


67 


Young men do such foolish things when they are in high 
spirits. Sam ought to have the benefit of the doubt. 
It isn’t fair to tell such things about him unless one is 
very, very sure.” So she tried to ease the weight on her 
heart, and resolutely put out of her mind, absolutely 
refused to entertain doubt any longer. Convinced her- 
self, almost, that the rumors were all a mistake. 

“How glad Katie will be when she finds out that it 
was all a horrible mistake. And all the rest of Sam’s 
friends, too. I’ll never tell him what scandalous things 
they were saying about him when I came home. 
Mother says she hasn’t seen Sam for nearly a year. 
I’ll manage, somehow, to get him into the house for a 
few minutes before we start on the picnic next Tuesday, 
and she will see — Mother’s intuitions are keen — that 
there are no signs of dissipation in his bonny face. — 
I must hurry now and answer Mrs. Pierce’s letter,” 
and she ran into the house singing, with no shadow of 
trouble or doubt on her face. 

Katie, who was expecting signs of tears, looked at 
her in wonder. 

“What state are you going to represent, Katie?” 
Lois asked pleasantly. 

“Kansas,” replied Katie. 

“ Kansas ! The one state that nobody else wanted ?” 
Lois stared at Katie a moment, then impulsively she 
put her arm about her sister and gave her a squeeze, 
saying, “You’re just the same generous, meek little 
mouse that I used to know.” 

Katie blushed with pleasure. Praise was sweet from 
this big sister whom she adored. 


68 


ILotsi jWorton’s Hfnbestment 


Up in her room Lois sat for some minutes with her 
pen poised over the sheet of note paper while she 
gazed, unseeing, out of the window at the familiar 
landscape. Gradually she became aware that the mass 
of foliage on which her eyes rested was the thicket of 
crab-apple trees in which Sam had made his solemn 
promise. She saw, again, that earnest, honest face, 
and heard the solemn words, “I promise Mother, and 
you, never to touch the intoxicating drink as long as I 
live.” 

“I simply cannot believe he has broken that vow to 
the dead, and I will not,” she said, and wrote her note 
of acceptance. 


iilfwt 3#appeneb at tfjc $tcttic 


69 


CHAPTER VII 

llfjat ^appeneb at tfjc picnic 

The day of the picnic dawned gloriously. There had 
been a gentle shower during the night, and the world 
was newly washed. Nature had on her gala dress and 
was young and smiling and beautiful. It was a most 
fitting time for everything young to gambol and frisk 
and make merry, and the company of boys and girls 
that gathered at the Happy Valley school-house were 
in high spirits. 

At first there had been some restraint, a little awk- 
ward embarrassment, as they realized that Lois was 
changed somewhat and that Sam was a comparative 
stranger to the company. Lois had greeted everybody 
warmly. She had gone over to the corner where Sam 
sat, since he did not himself make any advances, and 
cordially shaken hands with him. She was heartily 
glad to be at home again among these friends of her 
childhood. The fervor of her greeting and the ease of 
her manner had at once dissipated any lurking sus- 
picion that because of her eastern city life she might be 
“stuck up,” and she was received again on the old foot- 
ing of intimate friendliness and camradie. 

Not so poor Sam. The boys greeted him with an 
attempt at gruff friendliness, the girls made an evident 
effort to be polite, but their unusual formality shut Sam 
outside the friendly circle more effectually than any 


70 


Hote jUlottonte inbesitment 


lack of politeness could have done. Lois herself, be- 
cause she so much wanted to receive him on the same 
friendly footing, to make him feel that she was the same 
old friend he had known four years ago, was angry and 
contemptuous of herself when she found that in all the 
chatter going on about her and while she was replying 
with gay sallies of humor and nonsense, the one upper- 
most thought in her mind was the rumors Katie had 
told her of, and her subconscious mind kept asking, 
“Are they true? Does he drink ?” 

She felt instinctively that the others were all think- 
ing of the same thing. And Sam — of course he knew 
that they were looking at him furtively. Was it that 
which made him seem so awkward and embarrassed, so 
unlike himself? Lois asked herself. She finally had 
to admit that the change was not all in his manner — 
there was something different in his face. His eyes 
seemed to avoid yours, at least there was not the old 
straightforward look. However, there was the same 
mocking smile — no, not quite the same. Somehow the 
friendly humor seemed gone out of it, and at times it 
was more like a sneer. 

Lois had not forgotten her resolve to have her mother 
see him, which she could easily have done as her mother 
sat in the carriage outside while they all waited for the 
delegates from two other Sunday-schools, but she made 
no effort to have them meet. 

The procession soon began to form. The wagon of 
states, representing Uncle Sam, Aunt Columbia and 
their big family, was to lead. There it stood, a big 
rack on it with two rows of seats lengthwise and a group 


Wfjat Happencb at tfje picnic 


71 


of higher seats in front, all these covered with white 
muslin, while from its edges drooped twisted stripes of 
red, white and blue calico, and over all, from the flag- 
staff nailed to the high seat, floated the beautiful stars 
and stripes. Four white horses, with rosettes of red, 
white and blue at each bridle, were hitched to this 
chariot, and Henry Morton, who, after a hard day’s 
work in the corn-field, had given three evenings to fix- 
ing it up, proudly “held the ribbons.” 

Uncle Sam, in his high hat, striped trousers, starry 
vest and frock coat, mounted to his high seat, and real- 
ized too late that he had missed a privilege, if not 
neglected a duty, when he saw Paul Stanton assisting 
Lois to her place. 

Lois was a beauty this morning. She wore a sort of 
Goddess of Liberty costume. The little red cap sat 
jauntily on her queenly head, the long lines of her 
draperies revealed her graceful young slenderness, little 
brown tendrils curled about her white forehead and 
drooped over the ear that was next to Sam. He felt 
an impulse to brush them back in order to get a better 
view of the little pink-and-white ear that reminded 
him of a sea-shell his mother had given him when he 
was a little boy. 

“Shall I hold your parasol?” said a voice from the 
“soldiers in blue” standing behind them, and Sam 
flushed with annoyance as he realized again his stupidity 
and saw the smile Lois gave to Paul as he raised the 
little white parasol and gallantly held it over her head. 

This white parasol was an achievement that Katie 
was especially proud of. No other girl in the valley 


72 


%oi& jttorton’g SnbeStment 


had one. “She made it herself,” she was explaining to 
the girls. “Oh, ’course not the frame; that was an 
old one she just painted white, but she made the cover 
out of white cambric and put it on herself. Isn’t it 
pretty?” 

The girls agreed, with many admiring adjectives, that 
it was. 

“What a pretty dress you have on, Katie. It’s a 
new one, isn’t it?” some one asked. 

“Yes. Lois made it for me,” she added as she real- 
ized that the girls were all admiring it. It was probably 
the most inexpensive dress among the “states,” but 
it had an “air” that even ’Manda Jones’ new Victoria 
lawn, made by the town dressmaker, failed to take to 
itself, and it fitted Katie’s plump form perfectly. 
Modest little Katie really did not know that she was a 
very pretty girl, so it came as a great surprise to her 
when a bold, mischievous girl called out, “Say, boys, 
which is the prettiest state in the Union?” and two or 
three of them, with the perfect frankness of boyhood, 
answered, “Kansas.” They all laughed at Katie’s 
astonished face, and none of the girls felt very jealous, 
because Katie was such a universal favorite. 

As the long procession moved onward toward the 
grove, with its flags and banners flying, and its boys 
and girls chattering like magpies, Lois could not help 
but notice how outside of all the neighborhood interests 
Sam was. To various questions about this friend and 
that he had answered, “I don’t know.” He had 
offered no information about himself, and to questions 
about his school life and work had answered briefly 


fflbat ^appetieii at tfje $itmc 


73 


and conveyed very little information about either. It 
was not until she began to recall various incidents of 
their earlier school-days with, “Do you remember?” 
that he really seemed to be a little more at ease. Mean- 
while she was blaming herself for the feeling of restraint 
between them. “If only I had not heard those 
slanders,” she said to herself, “we could be on the same 
old friendly footing; but he knows that the people 
of this neighborhood are slandering him, and that I 
have heard the things they say about him. What is 
the matter with me that I cannot get them out of my 
mind and show him that I do not believe a word of 
them?” 

Arrived at the grove they found everything in readi- 
ness : a platform for the speakers, seats for the audience, 
tables for the picnic dinner, barrels of ice-water, — yes, 
one of lemonade, as the small boys soon discovered to 
their delight. There was only time for the girls to 
shake the creases out of their dresses, for the boys to 
assist the women to carry the baskets, wash-boilers, 
pails and tubs of dinner to the tables, and for both to 
walk around a bit, enjoying the cool shade of the wide- 
spreading oaks, when the beginning of the program was 
announced by the band’s striking up “Hail Columbia.” 

After the singing of America and a prayer by “the 
preacher” from town, two or three special songs by the 
various Sunday-schools were given, and then Mr. 
Townsend, chairman of the day, announced, “We will 
now listen to the reading of the Declaration of Inde- 
pendence, by our young friend, Paul Stanton.” 

This was a very great honor, but Paul bore it with 


74 


TLoi& jHocton’g Snbesitment 


becoming modesty. He was a good reader, and the 
spirit of the signers of the Declaration seemed to en- 
ter into him as he uttered, with fire and earnestness, the 
well-known sentiment, “We believe that all men are 
created equal and endowed by their Creator with the 
same inalienable rights of life, liberty, and the pursuit 
of happiness.” 

Paul never knew how much his impressive rendering 
of this sentiment had to do with the fortunes of three 
young people in that company, himself among them. 
It came with an arrest of thought to one young life that 
was drifting downward with the current instead of 
struggling bravely to breast it. 

“Are created equal,” Sam Smith repeated to him- 
self. “It may be,” but there was a good deal of 
skepticism in the thought. “ Looks to me, though, that 
I didn’t have as fair a start in life as Paul Stanton, for 
instance. More weights to carry, anyhow.” 

“With the same right to happiness?” he mused, while 
the reading went on. “I suppose a fellow may forfeit 
his right, but how is he to know when he has? Is 
he to accept the harsh judgment of a little, narrow, self- 
righteous community? No, by Heaven, I will not!” 
and he brought his right fist down in the palm of his 
left hand with an emphatic smack that caused those 
near to turn curious glances in his direction. He was 
annoyed at their notice, and rising hastily he wandered 
off among the trees, still pursuing the train of thought 
awakened by the reading. Suddenly he came upon 
Ike Wilson and Jim Prouty, two cronies whom he did 
not want to see today. 


Mfiat J^appeneti at tfje picnic 


75 


“Hello, Sam! ,, said Ike; “you’re just the fellow we 
was wanting to help us empty this bottle. Didn’t 
expect you could tear yourself away from your hi- 
falutin’ friends long enough to notice we was here, 
though. But you’re just in the nick of time. Here, 
have a drink.” 

“No, I don’t want any,” Sam answered gruffly. 
“Don’t, hey? Well, I must say that your tony as- 
sociations don’t seem to have improved your manners 
any, ” said Ike Wilson in a sarcastic tone. 

“Oh, cheese it! I guess a fellow doesn’t have to 
drink if he doesn’t want to. ” 

“Want to! We know you want to all right, don’t 
we, Jim? What’s the matter? ’Fraid your good-look- 
in’ lady friend will find it out? Say! she’s a daisy, 
ain’t she? Grown up into a regular heart-breaker. 
Jim, Sam’s hit under the fifth rib, that’s what’s the 
matter with him. Yes, sir! completely knocked out. 
Oh, say, Sam, come on and have a swallow. It’s just 
what you need to brace you up. ” 

“I tell you I don’t want any. And I’ll tell you 
another thing that will tend to keep you in good health 
if you observe it, ” Sam said, with a dangerous look in 
his eyes. “You two fellows just keep your remarks 
to yourselves about Miss Morton. ” 

“Oh ho,” laughed Ike. “Sammy’s sure a goner, 
Jim. In, heels over head. But say, Sammy dear, 
I’m sorry for you. You’re not the only one, you know, 
and I’m afraid your cake’s dough. I seen Paul Stan- 
ton steal a kiss from them pretty lips the other even- 
ing.” 


76 


Hots jWorton’s Snbeatment 


“You lie!” said Sam wrathfully. 

Now although Ike had lied deliberately, for the 
purpose of teasing Sam, he resented Sam’s contempt 
of him, and felt that he must vindicate his “honor.” 

“I don’t ’low no man to say that to me,” he shouted, 
and with clenched fists he made for Sam. Sam parried 
his blow and gave him a knock which sent him reeling 
backward. 

Jim now interfered in the capacity of a peacemaker, 
and Sam turned and walked away, but not before they 
had been discovered by a party of small boys. Jim 
and Ike also disappeared when the boys approached. 
The “bottle” was forgotten in the excitement. 

“I suppose there is no use to try to explain that sit- 
uation to — anybody,” mused Sam in great despond- 
ency, as he plodded homeward on foot, not having the 
courage to face the contemptuous looks that he knew 
would be directed at him as soon as the small boys had 
told their story. 

The story of the “drunken fight” of Sam Smith, 
Ike Wilson and Jim Prouty flew fast and far. Katie 
told it to Lois and begged her not to be seen in Sam’s 
company again that day. 

“There are surely two sides to that story, and I shall 
reserve my judgment till I hear the other side,” re- 
plied Lois. 

Katie was begining to remonstrate with her, when 
they were interrupted by Mrs. Pierce, who said to Lois : 
“My dear, I am afraid I have made a mistake in 
bringing Samuel Smith into association with you young 
people again. I hoped that he would receive much 


Hlfjat J^appeticb at tfjc picnic 


77 


benefit, and do no harm. It is such a pity that a bright, 
capable young man like Samuel cannot have his ambi- 
tion aroused for better company than he has been 
associating with lately, but he seems to have such 
depraved tastes,” and she heaved a weary sigh of 
discouragement . 

“Dear Mrs. Pierce, are you coming to this conclu- 
sion on account of the story of a fight that is being 
whispered around?” 

“Yes, largely because of that story. I know those 
boys, and I cannot but believe they told the truth. 
I am very sorry that anything so unpleasant should 
mar your first day with us, and feel that I am largely 
responsible for it.” 

“But, Mrs. Pierce, you will excuse me if I seem to 
criticise, — I cannot understand why everybody is at 
once convinced that Sam was drinking, when he had 
been with us ten minutes before and nobody suspected 
him of such a thing. Of course the boys say they saw 
him knock Ike Wilson down, but might he not have had 
some good reason to do so?” 

“Possibly; but I must warn you, my dear, that the 
affray looks very bad for Samuel. ” 

“Well, I for one shall not jump at conclusions,” said 
Lois warmly; “I cannot so easily lose faith in my 
friends, ” 


78 


ILoi* Motion’* Snbesrtment 


CHAPTER VIII 

TLoi* i * Conbmceb 

The Valley Literary Society was holding its semi- 
monthly meeting. The school-house was packed. 
There was much confusion and some disturbance among 
the boys and young men who were standing in the 
back part of the room. 

“Let us have order,” the grave young teacher, who 
was also president of the society, had requested several 
times. There seemed to be much going out and re- 
turning, and some one persisted in talking aloud in 
spite of evident efforts to stop him. 

The program usually began with a debate. To- 
night the question was that old, old one, “ Resolved , 
That the pen is mightier than the sword.” Some 
good arguments had been made, but they were rather 
dry and matter-of-fact, and interest was beginning to 
lag, when Orville Jones, the dunce of the school, arose 
to make his argument. Interest was aroused at once. 
Everybody was giving attention and expecting some 
foolishness to laugh at. 

Orville knew that he was not expected to do any- 
thing brilliant. He had felt for some time that he was 
rated far lower than his real ability deserved, and 
he had made up his mind that this was the time and 
place to prove to those “smart Alecs” that he was 
“no slouch.” He had prepared and rehearsed his 


Hots; te Conbtnceb 


79 


speech beforehand. Full of the consciousness of as- 
sured victory over these persistent detractors, he began 
bravely, in full, orotund tones: “Look at Napoleon 
Bonaparte!” Here a small boy, with his hand held 
tightly over his mouth and his cheeks puffed out, ex- 
ploded like escaping steam. This was disconcerting, 
so Orville began again : 

“ Look at Napoleon Bonaparte !” But there he stuck 
and glancing wildly around was not helped any by the 
grins on the faces of the boys and the laughter in the 
eyes of two young ladies sitting in front of him. 

With a courage born of despair he again shouted, 
“Look at Napoleon Bonaparte!” But this was too 
much for the restrained laughter, and it broke in a wave 
of shouts and peals all over the room. Orville, realiz- 
ing that he had met his Waterloo, sank shamefacedly 
into his seat. 

“Don’t laugh at him,” whispered Katie to Lois. 
“Poor fellow! I think it’s mean to make fun of him 
so.” 

“So do I,” answered Lois, “but, oh dear, it’s so 
funny I just can’t help it. ” 

The president rapped, and rapped for order before 
he could get any semblance of it. At last, when com- 
parative quiet had been restored he said, “We will 
now take a recess of ten minutes, after which the 
judges will render their decision and we will have the 
literary part of the program. ” 

A general stampede was made for the door. Their 
overflowing vitality was pent and cramped between 


80 


Hot* Norton'* Snbestfment 


walls ; the wideness of outdoors alone seemed adequate 
to these country boys and girls. 

Only Orville remained indoors. He was sitting in 
a forlorn and dejected attitude in the seat where he 
had dropped at the end of his attempted flight of 
oratory. Katie, glancing back from the doorway, saw, 
and turning, came back and seated herself in front of 
him, saying: “I am sorry you forgot your speech, 
Orville. It must be embarrassing to stand up before 
so many people and try to talk right out of your own 
head. I know I never could do it. Now it’s different 
when you simply speak a piece; you don’t have to 
think of the ideas and the words to fit them ; all you 
need then is a good memory.” 

Orville had looked up at her approach. By the time 
she had finished her little speech his head was raised 
and some of the dejection had disappeared. 

“And I wouldn’t be discouraged if I were you,” 
Katie went on. “I suspect lots of great men have 
failed to do what they wanted to the first time they 
tried. I remember Mother was reading us, just the 
other day, about the first time Disraeli tried to make a 
speech in the English Parliament. You know Disraeli 
is one of the leaders in Parliament, and Parliament is 
like our Congress,” she explained, well knowing that 
poor Orville knew as little about either as he did about 
Napoleon Bonaparte. “Well, the members of Par- 
liament just simply would not listen to him. They 
acted a whole lot worse than the boys and girls did 
tonight when they laughed at you, and they were grown 
men, too. But do you know what he did? He just 


Hote te Conbtnceb 


81 


stood there and waited till there was a lull, and then 
he said, ‘Some day you shall hear me!’ Wasn’t that 
splendid?” 

“ Y-a-a-s. What — what did you say there was before 
he told them that?” 

“Before he told them — ” repeated Katie in a puzzled 
voice, “Oh, lull?” 

“Y-a-a-s. What is a lull?” 

“Oh, that just means they got quiet enough for him 
to make himself heard. You’ll do better next time, 
Orville, ” she said as she rose to leave him, and then her 
sensitive conscience reminded her that she was not 
doing the kindly thing after all in encouraging him 
to try to do what her judgment told her he never 
could do; she paused and said: “After all, Orville, 
there are a great many other fine and brave things to 
do besides making speeches. Let’s you and me leave 
the speech-making to somebody else, and try to find 
out the things we can do best and stick to them.” 
She nodded, kindly, and passed out, leaving Orville 
sitting there, but now with shoulders back, chest ex- 
panded, and a flush as of victory on his heavy face. 

Out in the frosty moonlight a group of small boys and 
girls were playing “Fox and Geese” on the snowy 
playground of the “boys’ side.” 

“Come,” said Lois to the older group, “let’s play 
‘Black man’ as we used to when we were youngsters 
in this old school-house. I know you haven’t forgotten 
how, and it’s splendid exercise. ” 

They gathered on the “girl’s playground,” and one 
or two volunteered to be the “Black man.” 


82 


j®torton'£ Snbestment 


“No,” she replied, “we’ll decide it in the old way.” 
She lined them up, and, beginning at one end of the 
line, she went through the old rigmarole of, “Eny, 
meny, miny, mo; cracka, fena, fina, fo; oppa, nuga, 
poppa, puga, rig, pig, man, do.” 

“Do,” came to Sam Smith, whom Lois had included, 
although he stood somewhat remote, evidently not 
sure of his welcome. This was the first time Sam had 
appeared among them since the picnic of the summer 
before. He had gone away from home immediately 
after that, Rumor said, to visit relatives. 

“You’re ‘It,’ ” she told him, and he obediently took 
his place at the opposite end of the playground, and 
called out, “The Black man’s coming.” They all 
ran for the opposite base, but Sam caught two and 
gave them the “One, two, three” pats which changed 
them also into “Black men.” 

Several runs had been made. Lois, who ran like 
another Atalanta, had so far escaped all pursuers. The 
sides were about evenly divided, and both stood, for a 
moment, breathless after their run. Suddenly Sam 
called out, “Napoleon Bonaparte’s coming. Look out 
for Bony!” 

Laughing and breathless they ran. Lois, in trying 
to dodge Paul Stanton, who was coming straight to- 
ward her, plunged right into the outstretched arms of 
Sam. His arms closed round her, and instead of the 
three pats on the back, he kissed her on the cheek. 

“How dare you!” she demanded, with flashing eyes, 
as he released her. The next instant a brawny fist 


ILoia te Conbmtetr 


83 


shot out between them and Sam lay stretched out in 
the trampled snow at her feet. Only for a moment, 
however. He scrambled to his feet, and, with clenched 
fists, came headlong toward Paul, who simply stepped 
aside, and, with an outstretched foot, again tumbled 
Mr. Sam in the snow. 

Lois was distressed. 

“Oh, Paul! Paul! don’t fight him. He isn’t himself 
tonight. Please go into the house and leave him. 
Quickly!” 

With a shock Lois had realized, as he kissed her, 
that Sam had been drinking. 

Paul, too, knew that Sam had been drinking, but 
realized, better than Lois could, what kind of a reputa- 
tion he would make for himself among the other boys 
by running away at such a time ; but there was nothing 
Paul wanted more in life than to please Lois. He 
hesitated only an instant, then turned, and with his 
hands in his pockets, slowly sauntered toward the 
school-house. 

A crowd had gathered by this time, curious to know 
what was the matter. The kiss and the blow had 
been so quick, and at a time when all were absorbed 
in either catching or escaping some one, that really 
the first thing anybody noticed was Sam getting up 
from the ground and plunging, with angry face and 
clenched fists, toward Paul. 

After the second tumble Sam scrambled up angrier 
than ever, and with a muttered oath, started after 
Paul’s retreating figure; but Lois caught him by the 


84 


ICote iffflortonte Snbesttment 


arm with, “Please, Sam, not here and now,” and then 
in a low voice, “Don’t tell what the trouble is. Please 
don’t.” 

He looked at her dully, for a moment, then said sar- 
castically, “Oh, if you are afraid he’ll get hurt — ” 
Paul heard, and stopped, but Lois motioned him to 
go on. 

“I don’t want anybody to get hurt,” she replied, 
soothingly. 

The bell rang at this instant, and as one of the bellig- 
erents had “run like a coward” and the other was 
“held by a petticoat,” the boys, concluding there 
would be no further excitement, reluctantly moved 
toward the school-house, asking each other, “What’s 
the row, anyhow?” The girls, who had stood around 
with frightened faces, told each other, “It’s that Sam 
Smith! He’s been drinking and don’t know how to 
behave himself; but I wonder what he said to Lois? 
She’s in it, somehow.” But “how” remained a secret 
with the three. 

“We will now listen to the report of the judges,” 
the young president announced. The rustling and 
whispering stopped, and everybody turned to listen. 

At this instant, up shot the heavy, uncouth figure 
of Orville Jones, and in melodramatic tones, that rose 
to a screech at the end, he shouted, “Some day you’ve 
got to hear me!” 

The effect was as surprising to poor Orville as his 
previous attempt had been. Here was real tragedy, 
and before it only a pitying silence reigned. They 


1Lq\& te Conbmceb 


85 


had not meant to be cruel when they laughed at 
him. Now they began to realize how much their 
laughter had meant to him. They, with their brighter 
wits, also knew that poor Orville was making himself 
perfectly ridiculous by indulging himself in such an 
impossible ambition, yet no one felt like laughing now. 
“Hear him, indeed!” The trouble was not that they 
were unwilling to listen, but that he had nothing to 
say, “and never would have, poor fellow.” 

The president nodded to Mr. Slocumb, who had 
arisen to make the judges’ report, and he announced, 
“We have decided that the affirmative wins by five 
points.” There was a clapping of hands, and then 
the program proceeded as usual. 

Sam Smith had not come in again after recess, and 
there was no further disturbance. 

At the close of the program, as they were passing 
out through the little narrow hall, Orville Jones came 
up to Katie and said, “May I beau you home, Katie?” 

Katie’s face crimsoned as she heard the titters of 
those near. She emphatically did not want Orville’s 
company, but her kindly heart could not bear to sub- 
ject him to any more ridicule. She could bear the teas- 
ing that she herself would receive — “Oh, well, just for 
this once,” she decided, and with only an instant’s 
hesitation, she said pleasantly, “Thank you, Orville,” 
and taking his arm marched bravely past the grinning 
throng, oblivious to the loud whispers of, “Look at 
Bony, now! ‘Look at Napoleon Bonaparte!’ ” 

“Since Katie has so brazenly deserted you, may I 


86 


Hots fttorton’s Snbestment 


walk home with you?” asked Paul Stanton at Lois’ 
elbow. Paul certainly was getting over his bashful- 
ness. 

It is not the province of this chronicler to tell you 
what they talked about on the way home. The sig- 
nificant fact is that both avoided any reference to the 
playground incident, and Sam Smith’s name was not 
mentioned by either. 


Sltt Honest Confession 


87 


CHAPTER IX 

&n Honest Confession 

On Sunday afternoon following the debate, Lois, 
in loose gown and slippers, was curled up in the big 
cozy chair by the south window in “the girl’s room” 
reading “Seven Oaks” and eating apples. Mr. and 
Mrs. Morton had accepted an invitation to take dinner 
with friends after the morning church service, and the 
girls were enjoying the remainder of the day, each in 
her own way. Katie was in the kitchen making taffy, 
Sarah Ellen was popping corn, and little Hester was 
“helping,” as she fondly imagined. 

Lois had heard sleigh-bells apparently coming nearer 
and nearer, but had been so absorbed in the fortunes 
of her hero and heroine that she had not noticed that 
the sleigh had stopped at the gate. 

“Lois Morton, whom do you suppose is downstairs 
asking for you?” said Katie in guarded tones, as she 
came hurriedly into the room. 

“Well, I hardly suppose it could be Orville Jones, as 
I am probably not the one he would want to see,” Lois 
replied, teasingly. “From the expression on your face, 
Miss Katie, I should guess it is somebody you do not 
approve of.” 

“I certainly do not. It’s that Sam Smith. I’d like 
to know what business he has coming here where he has 
not been invited. But hurry and get into something 


88 


lioii jHorton’st Snbegtment 


you can go down in. I’ll help you. I ’spose you’ve 
got to go down?” she said, questioningly. 

“Yes, Katie, I must go down,” Lois answered with 
a serious face. “You’ll take the children out to the 
kitchen, won’t you? I think Sam has something to 
say that will not be easy for him.” 

“Lois Columbia Morton! you surely are not ex- 
pecting that — that scalawag” — Katie’s vocabulary 
was weak when it came to calling names — “to propose 
to you?” 

“Don’t be foolish, Katie,” was the tantalizing answer. 

In the room below, Sarah Ellen was doing her best to 
entertain this strange man with the eyes that looked at 
you as if he didn’t see you. She couldn’t think of any- 
thing at all that she wanted to tell him, but it was a 
part of Sarah Ellen’s code of manners that you must 
entertain visitors. She brought him the family album 
and asked, politely, if he would like to have her show 
him the pictures, but he said, “No, thank you,” so she 
put it back on the table and said, “Don’t you think it’s 
a nice day?” 

“Very nice,” in an absent-minded way. 

“You’ve got a cutter and horses of your own, haven’t 
you?” 

“Um, um,” he assented, “Not very politely,” Sarah 
Ellen thought. 

“Have you got any little girls at your house?” 

“Nary a girl.” 

“Any little boys?” 

“No.” 

“Got any big boys?” 


8ti ©ottest Confession 


89 


“Yes, one pretty bad one.” 

Sarah Ellen didn’t know what would be the polite 
reply to make to this remark, so she concluded to ignore 
it. 

“I know a boy that can hiccough whenever he wants 
to,” she announced. 

“You do! Well, that’s an interesting accomplish- 
ment, surely,” and he looked at her now as if he saw 
her for the first time. This was encouraging. 

“Did you know I am pigeon-toed?” was her next 
venture. 

He laughed at this. When he laughed he looked like 
a person you could make friends with. 

“I was not informed on that point before. Do you 
like to be pigeon-toed?” he asked with the twinkle still 
in his eyes. 

“It doesn’t matter very much now,” she told him, 
“but when I’m a young lady, like Lois, I wouldn’t 
want to be pigeon-toed; so I try real hard, whenever 
I think about it, to turn my toes out. You see I have 
to begin now, while I’m small; you can’t change bad 
habits after you’re big, you know.” 

“Can’t? Oh, I think it can be done, but of course 
it’s harder. But then, big folks can try harder than 
little folks, can’t they?” 

“I don’t know,” she said slowly ; “I try hard as ever 
I can.” 

“Well, I’m going to try ‘hard as ever I can,’ too.” 

Sarah Ellen looked at his feet, then at his eyes that 
seemed to be seeing something far off, and asked, “Are 
you pigeon-toed too?” 


90 


Hots! jUlorton’s! Snbestment 


He did not seem to hear her. Just then Lois and 
Katie came in, and Katie said, “ Come, Sarah Ellen, if 
we don’t pull our taffy now it will get too hard.” 

Sarah Ellen rose, with a sigh of relief, glad that her 
duties as hostess were over. 

The door had scarcely closed behind them when Sam 
took his courage in hand and plunged into his errand. 

“Miss Morton, I came to tell you how ashamed and 
sorry I am for my actions the other night at the ‘Lit- 
erary.’ I can’t find words to tell you how I despise 
myself for the weakness I have been indulging for the 
past three years.” 

“Oh, Sam! has it been going on as long as that?” 
said Lois in dismay. 

“Oh, I’ve been a perfect fool ever since you went 
away, I think.” 

He did not mean to insinuate that her going away 
had anything to do with his weakness. He did not, 
himself, realize how much her stronger moral nature 
had helped his weaker one. 

Lois had never lost, entirely, the childish impression 
that, in some unaccountable way, she stood in the place 
of his mother to him. Now, at his words, a feeling 
that she had been in some measure responsible for his 
fall, took possession of her. 

“Would it have helped you to remember your prom- 
ise if you could have seen me occasionally?” she asked 
gently. 

“Honest, Lois, I believe it would have,” as though 
the idea had just occurred to him. “But, I say, you’ll 
think me a mighty weak sister! If I can’t be man 


Sn honest Confession 


91 


enough to keep straight without a girl to hold me up, 
then I don’t deserve that girl’s friendship. I don’t 
blame Katie and the rest for dropping me. I expected 
you’d do the same thing when you came home and 
heard what a cad I’d got to be. Say, Lois, you’re an 
angel! I’m not going to try to make any excuses for 
myself ; there is no excuse for me. You can’t possibly 
despise me any more than I do myself.” 

“Oh, Sam, I don’t despise you. I’m just awfully 
sorry for you and want to help you if I can.” 

“Thank you for that. And you have helped me. 
Don’t think I’m not grateful for the way you’ve treated 
me — as though I were as good as anybody — since 
you came home. Say, Lois, you knew about me 
from the first, didn’t you? Of course they told you 
as soon as you got here, if they hadn’t written it to you 
before.” 

“Yes, they told me, Sam, but I didn’t believe it. I 
couldn’t — until the other night.” 

Sam winced. No reproaches she could have uttered 
would have helped him to see as clearly what the loss 
of confidence in him meant to her. In utter abase- 
ment he buried his shamed face in his hands, and silence 
fell between them for the space of several minutes. 
Finally Sam looked up and said, imploringly : “Lois, 
I don’t deserve it, but won’t you try to forgive me? 
I solemnly promise you that you will never see or hear 
of my drinking again.” 

Lois reached forward, and they shook hands again 
in the old way, while she said heartily : “Of course I 
forgive you, Sam, and I know you can say ‘No’ to 


92 


Eote itlorton^ Snbesrtment 


temptation until it will no longer be temptation. And 
Sam, I am expecting you to become one of the finest 
men in the county — just such a man as your mother 
would want you to be.” 

“I will. God helping me, I will,” he said brokenly. 


VLo i&ap “<goob=J6p” 


93 


CHAPTER X 

H>ap “<@oolJ=^p” 

“Sh — ! sh — ! Keep still now, everybody; he’s com- 
ing ! Don’t you hear him stamping the snow off at the 
kitchen door? Turn down the lamp, Jack — that’s 
right. Sh — sh — 

In the darkness of Mrs. Stanton’s big ‘‘sitting-room” 
the young people of the Valley and Hill neighborhoods 
waited to “surprise” Paul Stanton. The Stantons 
were about to remove from the neighborhood to make 
their home in the city of Chicago. 

The kitchen door was heard to open, they could hear 
Paul moving about, evidently removing his overshoes, 
cap and overcoat, then his footsteps quickly crossed 
the room and the sitting-room door was hastily opened. 
There was an inarticulate murmur of surprise and the 
sound of the scratching of a match. At the same 
instant Jack Winter turned up the flame in the lamp. 

The surprise was complete. Paul stood, with wide- 
opened eyes that slowly swept the smiling faces, his 
outstretched hand holding the match which burned 
slowly towards his fingers. All waited for him to speak. 
The flame of the burning match reached his fingers and 
seemed to awaken him. He dropped it hastily. 

“Is is is it a surprise party?” he stam- 

mered. 

“Is it! Well, I guess yes,” laughed Jack Winter. 


94 


Hote iWortonte Snbesttment 


“Oh, no! You’re not surprised, nor anything. 
Came right in expecting us, didn’t you?” chaffed 
another. 

“Paul surprised? Look at him! All dressed for 
company — not a hair out of place. Come now, Paul, 
don’t try to pretend you’re surprised,” called another 
with laughing irony. 

Pleased, but embarrassed, he still stood looking from 
one to another of the laughing, friendly faces until his 
mother said, “Paul, it’s several years since I had to 
remind you to say ‘How do you do?’ to your visitors.” 

This recalled him to his duties as host. 

“How do you do? I am very glad to see to 

see you all. I assure you I appreciate this evi- 
dence this evidence Oh, you all know I can’t 

make a speech,” Paul ended, appealingly. 

“You might tell us to ‘Look at Nap — ’ ” a pinch 
on the arm from Katie stopped ’Manda’s quotation, 
and at the same instant Lois led the movement towards 
Paul. The girls shook hands and the boys slapped him 
on the back, telling him, “You’re all right. We don’t 
need a speech to tell us you are as glad to have us here 
as we are to be here,” and the laugh at ’Manda’s sally 
was so mingled with their own laughing remarks that 
Orville Jones concluded they hadn’t noticed it after 
all. 

“What shall we play?” asked Paul after the chatter 
had subsided somewhat. 

Some one suggested “Old Miller.” 

“All right. Choose your partners for ‘Old Miller,’ ” 
called Paul. 


“<®oob=P|>” 


95 


There was an alacrity in doing so which was ac- 
counted for by the fact that nobody wanted to be the 
“Miller,” as he was the fellow who had no partner. 

“Katie, will you be my partner?” asked Jack Winter, 
and as she took his arm he said, teasingly, “Now I 
know who the ‘Miller’ will be.” 

“Orville, Orville Jones, you’re the ‘Miller.’ ” 

“Orville, you’re ‘It,’ ” called several voices, and 
Jack whispered, “Didn’t I tell you so?” 

The table and chairs were moved back against the 
wall, and in the center of the big kitchen a circle of 
couples was formed, Orville took his place in the center 
and they began to walk round him singing, 

“Happy is the miller who lives by the mill. 

If he is not dead he lives there still ; 

One hand in the hopper and the other in the bag. 

As the wheel rolls round he cries out — ‘Grab!’ ** 

As the word, “grab” was sung they quickly changed 
partners, each young man taking the arm of the young 
lady in front of him. If the “ Miller ” could slip his arm 
in that of one of the girls before the young man behind 
her did so, then that luckless young fellow was doomed 
to become the “Miller. ” 

Orville was slow. They all knew that. But Or- 
ville was also very gentlemanly — a fact that they had 
not all realized — and would not roughly “grab,” conse- 
quently his stay in the “mill” was lengthened till Lois 
took pity on him and helped him out. By a look ^nd 
a motion of her hand she indicated to him that he 
should take a place immediately behind her and march 


96 


Eote Motion* & Snbestm ent 


around with the rest. As they came to the word 
“grab” Lois suddenly stooped, ostensibly to pick up 
a pin, and Jack missed the arm he reached for. As 
she rose again Lois’ arm hooked itself on to Orville’s 
outstretched hand, in the most natural way in the 
world, and a discomfited Jack received, good-na- 
turedly, the jeers of the crowd. 

When they were tired of “Old Miller” they found 
chairs in the sitting-room again, where they played 
“Consequences,” “Proverbs,” and “Simon says, 
‘Thumbs up.’ ” In the latter game everybody who 
“wig- wagged” or turned “thumbs up” without the 
authority of Simon for so doing had to pay a forfeit. 
The forfeits were knives, rings, ribbon bows — any be- 
longings of value that could be found in pockets, or 
detached from their persons. When most of the com- 
pany had been caught by the artful Simon and had 
paid forfeits, a judge was appointed, over whose wise 
and judicial head the forfeits were sold in the fol- 
lowing manner: Standing behind the “Judge” and 
hiding the article to be sold in his closed hands the 
“seller” repeated, solemnly: “Heavy, heavy is the 
gold that hangs over your head.” The “Judge” then 
demanded, “Fine, or superfine?” Fine was supposed 
to indicate property belonging to the male sex and 
superfine that belonging to the female. The seller 
answered “fine” or “superfine,” as the case might be, 
and asked, “What shall the owner do to redeem it?” 

There was much fun as the various verdicts were 
rendered and the forfeits redeemed accordingly. 


g?ap “<!5oo&=3Sp” 


97 


Jack Winter was condemned to “Bow to the wittiest, 
kneel to the prettiest, and kiss the one you love the 
best” 

A few years earlier any of these boys would have 
frankly kissed his little sweetheart. Now, since they 
were grown up, everybody could be certain that the 
girl whose hand a boy kissed was not the one he loved 
best. 

Jack gravely bowed to a saucy little minx with red 
hair, knelt with his hands clasped pleadingly before 
Lois, who playfully scorned him, kissed, in a courtly 
manner, the hand of ’Manda Jones, and received a 
slap on the ear for his mock gallantry. 

“He shall make a speech,” was the next verdict, 
and when the pocket-knife in the hand was disclosed 
and Orville Jones claimed it there ensued an embar- 
rassed silence. But Orville surprised everybody by 
rising and with a flaming face, but steady voice, re- 
peating, in the manner and voice of a small boy, 

“You’d scarce expect one of my age 
To speak in public on the stage, 

And if I chance to fall below 
Demosthenes or Cicero, 

Don’t view me with a ‘cricket’s eye,’ 

But pass my imperfections by.” 

There was a shout of laughter at this “take-off,” 
for many remembered the “cricket’s eye” of Paul’s 
first “piece” in the old school-house. And Orville had 
proved to them that he had some wit, and had found 
it in time to save a very awkward situation. 


98 


TLoiti Motion* $ Snbesrtment 


Lois and Paul helped Mrs. Stanton to serve the re- 
freshments, and during the process found time for a 
confidential chat, out in the kitchen. 

“Who made up the list of invitations for this party?” 
inquired Paul. 

“Jack Winter and I,” replied Lois. 

“Was Sam invited?” 

“Yes.” 

“I wonder why he didn’t come?” 

“I hope we didn’t make a mistake in asking him, 
Paul. I have reason to know that he felt very badly 
about that occurrence at the ‘ Literary’ the other night. 
Jack thought perhaps you wouldn’t want him, but I 
said I thought you would want not to go away at 
enmity with him — that you’d want to go to your new 
home with the friendship of everybody here.” 

“Of course I do,” he answered heartily. “It’s all 
right between Sam and me. He wrote me a note a 
day or two after that occurrence, in which he called 
himself all kinds of names and said he didn’t blame me 
for knocking him down. Lois, I’m awfully sorry for 
Sam.” 

“And you answered his note, Paul?” she asked 
eagerly. 

“No, I went over to see him. You see, Sam had 
always admired my dog, Prince, and I wanted to find 
a good home for him, since we can’t very well take him 
with us. That’s where I was when you all sneaked in 
on me tonight. Of course I didn’t know anything 
about the party or I should have asked him, myself, 
to come. I tell you, Lois,” he said earnestly, “I 


99 


£§>ap “<®oob=J?p” 


wouldn’t like to be in Sam’s shoes. He has an awful 
handicap in that father of his.” 

While they talked in this intimate, friendly way, 
a scowling face with jealous eyes watched them through 
a crack in the shutters. 

Sam, torn between his longing desires to mingle in 
the “good times” and his certain knowledge that his 
presence there would be a “wet blanket” — that he was 
an alien, if not an outcast — had wavered in his decision 
after receiving the invitation. Lois would welcome 
him, he knew, and since Paul’s call this evening he felt 
certain of Paul’s welcome, too. But the others — “I’d 
better wait a while, till I prove to them that I can be as 
much a gentleman as any of them, ” he said to himself. 
But the longing to be there was so strong that he finaly 
dressed himself and started to walk the two miles to 
Paul’s home. When he reached the river, in the short 
cut he was taking, he found that he could not cross on 
the ice as he had intended. The January thaw had 
already set in and the ice had broken up. He was 
obliged to retrace his steps and cross on the bridge. 
He was already late, and before he reached the gate 
of the Stanton home his steps were lagging, and the 
impulse was strong upon him to turn about and go 
home. He went on, however, till he reached the gate, 
but there he stopped, uncertain. The sounds of mirth 
that came to him told him that the party was in full 
swing. It would be especially embarrassing to go in 
now, and attract the attention of everybody — he would 
not do it. The sensible thing for him to do was to go 
right straight home. He turned to go, then an impulse 


100 


ICote Jtlortonte Snbesttment 


to “just see who was there.” There was no dog to 
make a fuss — what harm if he just looked into the 
window a minute? 

He was ashamed of himself while he did it, but some 
impulse which he did not stop to analyze, held him. 
As he watched Lois and Paul talking so earnestly there 
in the kitchen, a rage of jealousy took possession of him. 

There was a movement to go, when Paul interfered 
with a plea of “Can’t we have one more game before 
you go? It is not late.” 

“I second the motion,” said Jack, and suggested, 
“We haven’t played ‘Weevilly Wheat’ yet.” 

“ ‘Weevilly Wheat’ it shall be,” said Paul, and every- 
body paired off. Paul turned to Lois, who took his 
arm, Jack started to find Katie, but Orville had reached 
her first. Although Katie did her best to avoid him, 
her kind heart would not permit her to refuse him. 

When Jack saw Katie take Orville’s arm he turned 
to seek another partner, only to find himself left alone — 
everybody had paired off. Nothing daunted, the de- 
bonair Jack turned to Mrs. Stanton, and bowing low 
said, “Madam, may I have the honor?” 

Laughingly she said to her husband, “Do you sup- 
pose I have forgotten how?” 

“ Go on, Eunice ; I’m sure you haven’t,” he replied. 

She placed her hand on Jack’s arm and they started 
for the kitchen ; then she stopped, and said to her hus- 
band, “Won’t you bring out your violin and play for 
us, dear?” 

“Certainly, if the young folks would like it,” he 
answered. 




101 


“Like it!” ejaculated Jack. “It will put the finish- 
ing touch to this jolly evening.” 

Usually the young people sang the accompaniment 
to this dance, or “play” as most of them termed it for 
the sake of those to whom dancing was tabooed, but 
they “played” it very much as the “Virginia Reel” 
was danced. 

They took their places now, in a long row down the 
middle of the big kitchen — partners opposite each 
other — and the song began, accompanied by the violin : 

“We won’t have any of your weevilly wheat, 

We won’t have any of your barley. 

But we’ll have some of your best of wheat. 

To make a cake for Charley. 

Oh, Charley, he’s a nice young man, 

Charley, he’s a dandy, 

Charley loves to treat the girls 
Whenever it comes handy.” 

This nonsense rhyme had a most inspiring, jiggly 
tune, and as these fresh-faced, wholesome country 
girls, and sturdy, manly country boys gracefully wound 
in and out of the figures of the dance and chassed 
down the center, singing the foolish words, they cer- 
tainly made a pretty sight. 

Mrs. Stanton entered into the spirit of it like a girl ; 
and it was the sight of this mother dancing so happily 
with her son and his friends, that changed the look of 
jealousy on the face outside the window, and sent its 
owner stumbling homeward with tear-blinded eyes — 
and fresh resolves. 


102 


Hots jWorton’s Snbestment 


CHAPTER XI 

&ti important (Question 

Again it was Sunday afternoon, more than two years 
later than the one on which Sarah Ellen entertained 
Sam Smith, — a warm, sunny, beautiful May day. 

Henry Morton’s flock of daughters were still under 
the parental roof-tree, although Lois was now a sedate 
schoolma’am teaching a district school some three 
or four miles from home. Old Lucy, and the new 
side-saddle, which Lois’ first month’s salary had bought, 
provided an easy and comfortable means of travel back 
and forth each morning and evening, and Lois could 
therefore use the money which she would otherwise 
have had to pay for board, in bringing into the home 
she loved so well some unwonted comforts, and even 
luxuries. Among the latter were books, which they’d 
never had enough of, a monthly magazine or two, and 
a Chicago daily newspaper which Lois had to endure 
some teasing about. 

A new book was waiting to be read today, but, some- 
how, although it was one she had particularly desired 
to read, she could not get interested in it. Her mind 
would wander from the story she was reading, and she 
was full of a vague unrest. Her usually buoyant spirits 
were depressed. Some longing which she did not ac- 
knowledge, even to herself, possessed her. She felt 
that she must get out of doors — must be alone. 


!3n Important Question 


103 


The family had come to recognize these spells of 
depression, and Lois’ need for solitude at such times. 
From a child she had loved to go away by herself to 
think things out, to ponder, to dream day-dreams. 
Sometimes her place of retreat was the seat in the old 
Talman-Sweet tree. Sometimes in her childhood, at 
the very top of the tallest cottonwood tree, where she 
could look through its thin foliage up into the blue, 
blue sky, or have a wide view of valley and winding 
river and the wooded bluffs beyond. It seemed, at 
such times, that her vivid imagination really trans- 
ported her to another world, where everything was 
beautiful and satisfying, and supplied a need which the 
prosaic, matter-of-fact life of the fanily did not give 
to her imaginative nature. 

This trait in her eldest daughter was the cause of 
much anxious thought on the part of her mother. 
Never lived a mother who was more anxious to do her 
whole duty by her children than Mary Morton. Timid, 
with a lack of self-assertion that amounted almost to 
weakness, she nevertheless held tenaciously to certain 
principles and fixed ideas. One of these was that the 
best, and only good, children’s stories were true stories. 
Fairy stories were, to her mind, “foolish and harmful,” 
as tending to encourage untruthfulness. The whole 
beautiful world of the imagination was as a sealed book 
to her, and when she found one of her own flock taking 
refuge in this region, where she could not follow, she 
was as much perturbed as a hen with a duckling among 
her brood which persists in living part of its life in 
another element. As her little girl developed, how- 


104 


llote jMorton’g Snbesrtment 


ever, she saw that Lois usually came back from these 
retreats serene, joyous, at one with the family life in all 
its interests, and, though the mother never ceased to 
wonder, she came to accept these withdrawals without 
protest or interference. Today nobody offered to go 
with Lois when she announced that she was going for 
a walk. 

Out through the orchard and down the road by the 
line fence — the old sagging wire with its rotten posts 
had been replaced by a good three-board fence — she 
went with a rapid, springy step, head erect, alert eyes 
seeing the pink beauty of the sorrel, the blue of the 
johnny-jump-up under the osage orange hedge which 
protected the orchard on the north, and the sunshine 
of the buttercups that grouped themselves in clusters 
on the prairie to the right. Out by the big boulder, 
where Sam Smith had first entered her life, she paused, 
and, after a moment of irresolution, seated herself and 
was soon lost to all sights and sounds in a deep reverie. 

All the harrowing details of the awful tragedy of that 
day again enacted themselves before her mind’s eye. 
Again she pillowed the head of Sam’s mother in her lap 
and heard her broken whisper of, “Tell — my — boy 
— never — touch — .” Again she saw that boy’s 
abandonment of grief as he kissed and caressed the 
face and hands that would nevermore kiss and caress 
him. Again she saw the besotted face of Sam’s father. 

“O God, what a terrible thing the ‘drink’ is!” she 
said aloud. 

As if her own voice had aroused her from a night- 
mare she arose and sauntered slowly forward, with 


Hn important (Question 


105 


head bent and troubled eyes seeing nothing of the 
beauty of the world about her. “I told him, ” she was 
saying to herself, “I told him twice. And he promised 
never to touch the hateful drink. He meant to keep 
that promise, too, but three times now he has made it, 
and three times broken it. The last time he broke it 
he told me that he should not make any more promises, 
but he would show me that he i could let it alone, or — .’ 
When I questioned ‘or what?’ he would not answer. 
I think he has kept it for nearly a year now, but I 
haven’t seen or heard from him for three weeks. I 
wonder what that can mean?” 

Slowly pondering these things she came to the river- 
bank. The old log that used to span it had long since 
floated away in some spring freshet, and had been re- 
placed by a rustic bridge. Leaning on the protecting 
rail of this bridge, and gazing down into the water, 
Lois continued her reverie. 

Presently, however, she was startled from it by a 
joyous voice saying : “Here you are! If you were half 
as glad to see me as I am to see you, you would have 
come to meet me.” 

Her pulses leaped to the joy note in his voice, and 
impulsively she stretched out both hands in welcome. 
He caught them in his, and stood looking into her 
smiling eyes with unflinching gaze. 

“Are you glad to see me, Lois?” he demanded. 

“Very glad,” she answered frankly. “Where have 
you been so long?” she questioned. 

“It is quite a long story. Let us find some place to 
sit down while I tell you,” and he led her across the 


106 


TLoi# jWorton'ji inbestment 


foot-bridge and up the stream a little way till they came 
to a fallen log, where they seated themselves in the sun- 
shine that sifted through the pink-and-white boughs 
of the crab-apple thicket. With the incense of the 
crab-apple perfume filling the air about them, and the 
rosy snow of the falling petals showering down upon 
them, Sam began his story. 

“A year ago, when I attained my majority, my father 
presented me with a deed to a quarter-section of land — 
the farm that lies just north of the river. I managed 
it myself last season, did most of the work myself, and 
harvested a fine crop. The past winter I have been 
feeding my corn to my stock, fattening them for market. 
Last week I went to market with them and I have just 
returned from the city with twenty-five hundred dol- 
lars profit to show for my year of work.” 

“Why, that’s fine. I congratulate you,” said Lois 
heartily. But why did you not tell me before about 
your farm? I have seen you at work in the field often, 
as I rode past to and from my school, but I thought it 
was your father you were working for.” 

“I had a reason for not telling you, or anybody; 
I was proving myself. I have been waiting a whole 
year, and looking forward to this day when I could 
come home to you and say, Lois, dear, I have loved 
you ever since I knew you, and now that I am sure I can 
take care of you I have come to ask you to be my wife. 
Will you, darling?” he ended, smiling into her face ex- 
pectantly. 

Lois’ head was bowed, and her eyes downcast. She 
made no response, and continued silent so long that at 


&n important ©uestton 


107 


last Sam said, in alarm, “Why, Lois, dear little girl, 
you wouldn’t go back on a fellow now, would you? I 
need you so much. Oh, you don’t begin to realize how 
I have just lived on the thought of winning you some 
day for my very own little wife. Especially this year. 
Why, it’s for you I’ve been working. My last conscious 
thought at night has been of you ; my sleeping hours 
have been full of beautiful dreams of you ; and my first 
waking thought has been, * another day to work for the 
girl I love.’ It’s for you, sweetheart, I have been trying 
to keep myself clean ; to make myself worthy of your 
love. Oh, I know I am not worthy, — my past looks 
black as the infernal regions compared with the white- 
ness of your pure life, but, dear heart, you forgave that 
so like the Bible says God forgives, that I thought — 
I hoped it would not make a barrier between us. And 
I will strive so hard — it will be so easy with you to 
live with ” 

In his earnestness, and growing alarm, Sam had 
dropped to his knees and grasped one of Lois’ hands, 
and now held it as a drowning man clings to a rope that 
may pull him safely to land, while he gazed up into 
her face and tried to compel the drooping lashes to un- 
veil the brown eyes in whose depths he felt he should 
find his answer. 

Lois was in an agony of indecision. She could not 
bear to say “No,” she did not dare to say “Yes.” 
She loved him, yes, of course she loved him, but that 
weakness — the chance that he might some day become 
a drunkard. Oh, could she dare to take the risk? 


108 


Hots Norton's KnbcStmcnt 


She could not decide it now. She must have more 
time to think about it. 

“Oh, please, Sam,” she said at last, looking at him 
with troubled eyes, “please give me a little time to 
think. You see,” with a faint smile, “I have not been 
thinking about this for a whole year, as you have. 
You must give me a few days to think it over.” 

“Lois, you’re afraid I’ll drink! I swear to you I 
will not. Why, it has been more than a year now since 
I touched a drop of anything intoxicating. I never 
want to have anything to do with the accursed stuff 
as long as I live. Lois, I feel so sure of myself ! Why, 
little girl, I love you too well to ask you to share my 
life if I thought, for a moment, that I’d ever disgrace 
you by unmanning myself with liquor.” 

Poor Lois! He was making it so hard for her to 
take even a little time for quiet consideration. Yet 
she must, no matter how hard it might be for both. 
She longed, with all the strength and passion of a 
young goddess, to fling her arms about the neck of 
this strong, virile man, who loved her with such de- 
votion and yet was so humble before her, and pillow 
his dear head on her bosom. Yet she gently released 
her hand, and rising said quietly, so quietly that Sam 
thought it was coldly, “Come again a week from to- 
day, and I will give you your answer.” 


jfor Weal or Woe? 


109 


CHAPTER XII. 

jfov Weal or Woe? 

It was a week of unrest for Lois. Again and again 
she brought her mind to bear on the question without 
arriving at any decision. The picture of Sam’s father 
swaying and bouncing like an inert thing, while his 
runaway team tore down the road unhindered by him, 
came often to her mind. And the nearer view of his 
sodden, bloated face, as he sat in the wagon, all un- 
conscious of the tragedy his self-indulgence had caused, 
while the precious life of the woman he had sworn 
to cherish and protect went out, was ever before her. 
She wondered how Sam could forgive his father. She 
had never wanted to see him again. As a matter of 
fact she never had seen him, except at a distance, 
from that day to this. And that man would be her 
father-in-law if she married Sam. She shuddered. 
Yet poor Sam was not to blame that his father was 
a drunkard ; on the contrary, he was very much to be 
pitied. If his mother had only lived he probably would 
never have yielded to temptation — he loved his mother 
so. Or if he had had a sister, or some woman who cared 
for him — “Some woman who cared,” she repeated; 
“has he no woman friend who cares?” and was obliged 
to answer her own question, “Nobody but me. Oh, 
how can I disappoint him and desert him now? But 
I’m afraid. I’m afraid.” 


110 


TLoi# Motion*# 3nbe£tment 


She wished she could talk the matter over with 
Katie, but Katie was strangely intolerant of Sam’s 
weakness, although the most kindly-hearted, forgiving 
person toward everybody else. She knew what Katie 
would say. Katie did not know Sam as she did, how- 
ever, and therefore was not competent to judge. No, 
she could not ask Katie’s opinion on this question. 

“Mother,” she ventured one day when they two 
were alone, “when Father asked you to marry him 
did you have to hesitate before you said ‘Yes’?” 

“No, dear; I knew before he asked me that he was 
going to, and that I wanted him to. I didn’t say, 
‘Yes, thank you,’ but to be real honest with you, that 
is the way I felt. Let me tell you this, daughter,” 
she added : “if you have any doubt how to answer such 
a question, answer it ‘No.’ The very doubt proves 
that you do not love the man who asks it.” 

“Is that the only guide for a girl? If she is sure a 
man loves her and that she loves him, ought that to 
settle the question? Is there nothing else to be con- 
sidered?” 

“That is the supreme test, dear. Nothing else mat- 
ters much, unless there is some insuperable reason why 
one or the other ought not to marry.” 

Lois knew that her mother was waiting for a further 
confidence, but somehow she felt that she could not 
make the situation plain to her mother. It was very 
hard to talk sentiment with “Mother.” 

With her father she was more frank. “Daddy, I 
want to tell you a secret,” she said, as she climbed up 


Jfot Meal or Moe? 


ill 


to the hayloft where he was was pitching hay into the 
mangers below. 

“All right. Shall I ‘cross my heart and hope to 
die , ? ,, he jestingly replied. This was the promise she 
had often exacted of him when she revealed her child- 
ish secrets to him. In the gloom of the hayloft he had 
not observed the seriousness of her face. 

“Daddy,” she said, ignoring his levity, “would 
you consider the fact that a man had been intoxicated 
a few times an insuperable obstacle to a nice girl’s 
marrying him?” 

“Lord save us, no.” Then as the real import of her 
question dawned on him he questioned, gently, “Sam 
Smith has asked you to marry him, daughter?” 

“Yes, Father.” 

There was silence between them for several min- 
utes. At last he said, slowly, “I always supposed it 
would come sometime ; but you are so young, Lois.” 

“I am twenty, Daddy. Mother was seventeen 
when she married you.” 

“Dear, dear, how tempus does fugitl” he said whim- 
sically. “And Sam Smith wants to marry you, — 
to marry my little girl. How old is Sam?” he de- 
manded, suddenly. 

“He is twenty-two, Father.” 

“Sam’s a bright fellow. I hear he is very steady 
and industrious lately, but, — if I could choose for you, 
daughter, I should choose a man who has a better an- 
cestry than Sam has. To be sure, he is showing won- 
derful will-power in keeping himself straight in spite 
of the influences in his own home, but there’s always 


112 


Hots Jllorton’s Snbestment 


the chance that the inherited appetite may prove too 
strong for him. Do you love him, daughter?” he 
asked suddenly. 

“Yes, Daddy.” 

“And have you given him your promise?” 

“Not yet, Father.” 

“Why do you hesitate?” 

“For the very reason that you do, Father.” After 
a moment of thoughtfulness, she asked, “Isn’t a man 
who overcomes temptations stronger than one who 
never had any to overcome?” 

“Yes, — yes, you’d have to admit that about any- 
thing else. You’re very sure you love him, daugh- 
ter?” 

“Very sure, Daddy, dear.” 

“Lois, girl, I would not dare to interfere in a case 
like this. You’ll have to settle it for yourself. I 
could not take the responsibility even if you left it 
all to me. But take plenty of time to think it over, 
darling. It is a grave question. And may God help 
you to settle it wisely.” 

Yes, after all nobody could decide for her; this 
was a matter that concerned herself — and Sam — more 
than anybody else in the world, and as she slowly 
sauntered toward the orchard she continued to con- 
sider everything that had a bearing on the question. 
At least she thought she did. But the question of the 
children that might be born into the world as the re- 
sult of this union, and their rights, had absolutely 
no place in her thoughts. She would have blushed 
to consider such a thing. Of course she had known 


Jfot Meal or Moe? 


113 


ever since she knew anything about marrying and giv- 
ing in marriage that the usual result was children, 
but as for deliberately considering them, neither her 
mother nor her father thought it necessary to mention 
the need, and a false modesty, the result of the fal- 
lacious policy of keeping girls innocent, forbade her 
even dwelling on the thought. 

“So to the end, when life’s dim shadows fall. 

Love will be found the sweetest song of all,” 

Katie’s clear voice rang out sweetly in the old song, 
and as Lois dropped on the grass at the foot of the old 
Talman Sweet tree she said to herself : “It seems that 
everybody thinks that if two people love each other, 
that is all that needs to be considered ; but love doesn’t 
always last to ‘the end, when life’s dim shadows fall.’ 
I suppose Sam’s father loved his mother once, but they 
came to the place where he loved the drink better. 
It seems so selfish to think only of myself and my hap- 
piness — O God, you’ll have to help me settle this 
question ; I cannot do it by myself.” 

Lois was not a church member. She wasn’t sure 
whether she was a Christian, but she fell upon her 
knees, and, lifting a pale, anxious face heavenward, 
she cried, “O God, what shall I do? This is probably 
the most important question I shall ever have to de- 
cide. Speak and tell me what I ought to do.” Striv- 
ing to empty her heart and mind of self, to put away 
every conscious desire of her own will, she knelt there 
in the orchard while the pink-and-white petals of the 
old apple tree slowly drifted down and rested on her 


114 


Hote Motion* & 3htbesrtment 


head like a benediction. Still she knelt, honestly 
anxious to learn of Divine wisdom, listening, listening 
for a Voice from above to guide her, lest she should 
err. 

At last she rose, and slowly, with drooping head 
and listless movements, walked toward the house. 

“Lois, Lois, where are you?” called Sarah Ellen’s 
imperative voice. “Oh, there you are,” as she caught 
sight of her through the trees. “Here’s a letter for 
you, from Chicago. Who do you guess it’s from?” 
Not waiting for an answer, Sarah Ellen rattled on : 
“ ’Manda Jones says you’re going to marry Sam 
Smith. Are you, Lois ? And if you do would he be 
my Uncle Sam?” 

“Sarah Ellen, there’s a bag of candy on my table 
upstairs that you may have, if you’ll divide it with 
Hester.” This successfully diverted her, as Lois in- 
tended, and she skipped happily away to get the candy, 
forgetting all her embarrassing questions. 

Lois sat down at the foot of a tree and gazed idly 
at the sky through its branches. She was so exhausted 
with her struggle that her mind seemed to be a blank. 
She toyed with the letter in her hand without realizing, 
for some time, that she had a letter. At last, however, 
she glanced at it, and recognized Paul Stanton’s hand- 
writing. Glad of the diversion, she eagerly opened 
the letter, and read as follows : 

“Chicago, May 5th, 18 — . 

“ Dear Lois : I want to tell you how a school-boy long ago fell 
in love with the sweetest girl in all the world. He was such a bash- 
ful fellow that he never dared to tell her he loved her ; never dared, 


Jfot Meal or Woe? 


115 


even, to write her a note, except on one occasion when he told her 
of such a daring wish that he was scared for weeks afterward for fear 
he had offended her. His love for her grew stronger with his years 
and took deeper and deeper root, until now it is woven in with the 
innermost fibers of his being and can never be separated from his 
life. 

“He has seen and known many other girls, since those early 
days of his boyhood, but she is still the only girl in the world for him. 
Now that he has grown to man’s estate, and has longings for a home 
of his own, her image is the one he pictures as the queen of that home. 

“Lois, dearest, with all my heart I love you. The supreme joy 
of my life will be to shield you from everything unpleasant, to give 
you the devotion of a heart that is wholly yours, if you will let me. 

“I have a good position here, in my uncle’s office. Have been 
twice promoted, and have a good prospect of working to the top. 
My father owns several houses here and will give us our choice of 
them for a home. He will also give us carte blanche for the furnish- 
ings, and my mother will be the happiest woman in Chicago if she 
may help you to select and fit up her boy’s new home ; for, Lois, 
they have long known that I love you. They, too, know and love 
you, and will gladly welcome you as a daughter. 

“If you can say ‘Yes,’ just write me the little word ‘Come,’ and 
as fast as steam can bring me I shall hasten to you. 

“In anxious suspense I await your answer. 

“Ever your lover, 

Paul Stanton.” 

The slow tears were chasing each other down her 
cheeks while she read, and as Lois finished the letter 
she threw herself upon the ground and sobbed and 
cried as though her heart would break. 

“Oh, Paul, Paul, you make things so much harder 
for me,” she sobbed. 

Presently she arose, saying to herself, “I am too 
tired to think, now,” and slipping in through the front 
door to avoid meeting any of the family, she threw 


116 


Hote Jilortonte 3fnbestfment 


herself on the bed in her own room and soon fell into 
a sleep of exhaustion. 

Not a dreamless one, however. We can never quite 
escape the troubles and perplexities of this world even 
in the land of dreams. In her dream Lois seemed to 
be on a journey, traveling along a lonely road on foot 
and carrying a heavy burden. Behind her a man, also 
heavily laden, followed. Although she waited for 
him to catch up, now and then, he soon fell behind 
again, seeming not able to keep step with her steady 
pace. Presently, as she plodded along in the dust of 
the highway, a man in a comfortable phaeton, with a 
fine, spirited horse, came up from behind her, and 
stopping by her side invited her to ride. She thanked 
him and was about to avail herself of his kind offer, 
when, glancing back she saw that the man behind had 
fallen under his burden and lay prostrate in the dust. 

“Oh, take him too, can’t you? He is so tired,” 
she pleaded. 

A sorrowful, pitying look came over the kind face 
of the man in the phaeton, but he shook his head, say- 
ing, “I have room for only one.” 

For a moment she struggled with her sense of weari- 
ness and loneliness, then she said firmly, “Take him. 
I can walk.” 

Slowly he turned back, lifted up the prostrate man 
and assisted him into the phaeton; then, seemingly 
unmindful of the man’s burden, he loosed the reins 
of the willing horse and they sped onward. 

She stood looking after them, with mingled feelings 
of satisfaction and regret, till they disappeared ; then 


Jfor Iffieal or floe? 


117 


slowly retraced her steps to where the forgotten bur- 
den lay. Here she had another struggle with her- 
self. 

‘‘It is not mine. He could so easily have carried 
it with him in the phaeton. I have enough of my own. 
I will not do it,” and she turned her back and walked 
forward a few paces ; but something impelled her to 
stop and reconsider the matter. “Perhaps it contains 
something valuable, but probably it is worthless, which 
accounts for his leaving it. I cannot understand why 
I should have the feeling that I must pick up this 
dusty, unattractive package, and burden myself still 
further with other people’s belongings — I only feel 
that I must.” So saying, she lifted the burden, which 
was heavier than her own, and in great depression of 
spirits struggled onward again. 

But now a wonderful thing happened. Suddenly 
there walked by her side a woman who laid her hand 
on Lois’ shoulder saying, in a sweet and gentle tone, 
“My daughter, I perceive that you measure your life 
by the rule that is golden.” Turning her head to see 
who this appreciative companion might be, Lois was 
met by a vision of a radiant being with a face like 
Sam’s mother. 

On the instant she awoke. She sat up and stared 
wonderingly about her as though expecting to see some 
one, then her face fell as she murmured, “Oh, I did 
so want to talk with her!” 

Presently she said, under her breath, “What a 
strange dream!” 


118 


Hote Jfflorton'£ Snbegtment 


“Come down to supper, Lois,” called Katie from the 
stairway, and Lois had no time to ponder the strange 
dream further. 

After she retired that night she thought it over 
again. The men and the burden incident she passed 
over as simply queer. The impression that stayed 
with her most vividly was the face of Sam’s mother 
and her words, “I perceive that you measure your 
life by the rule that is golden.” 

“I wish that were true of me,” she mused. “It 
seems a simple rule — do unto others as you would 
have them do to you. Now let’s see. I will try to 
put myself in Paul’s place; if I were Paul and Paul 
were me, — why, that’s easy. Feeling the way he 
says he does, I’d want the thing I wanted — just as 
he does. And if I were Sam, and Sam were me — I’d 
want to fight that dreadful inheritance, and I’d want 
happiness in spite of it, too. I’d have everything 
that would help me, too, if I could possibly get it. 
So it seems to me if that is the only rule to measure 
my life by, I’d promise to marry both of those boys. 
But, then, I couldn’t keep my promise to both of 
them. — Oh, dear, I’m getting silly!” 

Still she continued to gaze out of the window at the 
stars in the southern sky, and her active brain pre- 
sented new and unusual thoughts. 

“If they were both in great danger and I could save 
only one? Suppose an enemy had bound both of 
them fast in front of an approaching train and I had 
only time to rescue one? Paul, strong, active, kind- 
hearted, clean-lived Paul — it would be such a loss to 


Jfor Ileal or Woe? 


119 


the world if Paul should have to leave it now, and my 
life would be poorer without his love and friendship. 
Sam, poor Sam, who was born into the world with a 
handicap — poor Sam, who lost his dearest friend just 
when he needed her most — Sam, who is fighting 
bravely to make a useful man of himself — oh, I could- 
n’t let Sam lose his chance! Dear me, what morbid 
thoughts I am indulging in! This isn’t a case of life 
or death for either one. Suppose I refuse Paul? 
What would probably happen? — Paul would feel 
dreadfully disappointed, I know. But he’d have his 
mother to sympathize with him. He would go on 
with his work, after a bit, perhaps, still the same fine, 
clean-hearted, helpful fellow; and after a while he’d 
forget his disappointment and marry some sweet, 
lovable girl and be happy. 

“Suppose I say ‘no’ to Sam? I’m afraid — oh, I’m 
dreadfully afraid Sam would quit trying to be a man. 
Oh, Sam, dear Sam, I am going to help you, of course 
I am! Did you think, for a minute, that I was going 
to desert you? Why, I never could know another 
happy hour in my life if I failed you now.” She looked 
up to the largest and brightest star and whispered, 
“Dear Mrs. Smith, he’s going to be my boy, too, 
now,” and smiling happily she fell asleep. 

This is the letter she sent the next day, to Paul 
Stanton : 

“Dear Paul: You have given me the greatest honor a man can 
give to a woman. Your letter made me so glad, so humble, so sorry. 
Glad, because you love me; humble, because I fear that you put 
me on too high a pedestal ; and sorry, — oh, believe me, so very, very 


Hots jWorton’si Snbetftment 


120 


sorry that I am crying now while I write you that I cannot grant 
your wish. 

“ And Paul, dear Paul, because you are my very dear friend, and 
I hope always will be, I am going to tell you why I cannot be your 
wife. It is because Sam Smith has asked me the same question and 
I am going to marry Sam. He needs me so much more than you do, 
Paul. You are strong. You have your mother. You have a splen- 
did father, and so many advantages that poor Sam lacks. 

“My heart aches for you, Paul, because I know you will be so 
disappointed. But, dear friend, I know you will bear your dis- 
appointment like a man, and by-and-by you will come to know 
some sweet girl who will make you a better wife than I should. 
When that time comes write me, Paul, I shall be so glad to know you 
are happy. I want you to be happy. I can’t bear to think of the 
pain this letter will cause you. 

“Good-by, Paul. I shall always remember you as the finest, 
truest gentleman I have ever known. 

Sincerely your friend always, 

Lois Morton.” 


beginnings; 


121 


CHAPTER XIII 

beginnings 

And so they were married. But the afterward is 
as much a part of the story as what went before. 

They were very happy, these two. Sam’s boyish 
delight in his home, and in the little womanly touches 
Lois gave to it, was to her almost pathetic at times. 
It told so plainly of his starved boyhood. 

“It does look pretty to have flowers on the table at 
mealtime,” he remarked one day. “Kind o’ makes 
things taste better too, doesn’t it?” 

“How nice it is to open my drawer and take out 
fresh linen without having to look it over to see whether 
the buttons are all on. I used to have to stop to sew 
one on sometimes, when I was in a tearing hurry, 
too.” 

“You seem to be ‘dressed up’ all the time, even in a 
calico morning dress. I think it’s because you always 
wear a clean collar, or a bit of lace,” he said to Lois 
one day. “You’re like my mother about that.” 

He was immensely . proud of Lois’ taste in the fur- 
nishings of the few rooms of their little house, but his 
especial admiration was their bedroom. This she had 
furnished very simply and inexpensively, in blue and 
white. White dotted swiss curtains, tied back with 
blue ribbons, at the windows ; white linen scarf worked 
in a blue cross-stitch pattern, blue pincushion and white 


m 


TLoii Jflorton’si Snbestmcnt 


crocheted mats with a blue frilly border, on the dresser. 
The bed was dressed in a white counterpane and white 
pillow-shams worked in blue. These “shams” had a 
border of morning-glories and a motto outlined in 
chain-stitch after the fashion of the day. On one the 
motto read, “ I slept, and dreamed that life was beauty,” 
while the other completed the couplet with, “I woke, 
and found that life was duty.” 

“Lois,” said Sam hesitatingly, as he contemplated 
with admiring gaze this room which they had been 
all the morning arranging, “Lois, I don’t quite like 
that motto — it seems so kind o’ sinister. Life is 
beauty. Of course it’s duty, too, but the duty only 
adds to the beauty.” 

Lois had had the same feeling about it while she was 
embroidering it. Had even laid it aside only half done, 
with the determination to get another one with a more 
cheerful motto, then chiding herself for being a “sen- 
timental simpleton,” she had taken it up again and 
completed it. 

Now she said, “Oh, Sammy dear, of course we 
mustn’t expect that life will always have the rosy glow 
that it has now. I suspect that we’ll wake up some 
morning and find that it looks very much like plain, 
hard duty.” 

“Let’s never wake up. Let’s keep on dreaming,” 
he answered lightly. 

On the floor of this dainty room was a blue-and- 
white rag carpet. 

“I never before saw a rag carpet in just two colors. 
It’s prettier than a ‘boughten’ carpet,” Sam remarked. 


beginnings; 


ns 


“Say, Lois,” he added with a whimsical look on his 
face, “if you should see me rushing out of this room 
headlong some day, you don’t need to be alarmed; 
it will just mean that a bad thought has come into 
my head and I can’t entertain it in this room.” 

“Well, then, Mr. Sam, I shall just slam the door 
shut before you reach it and keep you in here. This 
is going to be a very inhospitable home for bad thoughts 
or bad people; unless,” she added quickly, “we can 
help them to be better, — the people, I mean.” 

“Lois, it would help any fellow, no matter how bad 
he was, to be a better man, if he had such a girl as you 
for a wife, and such a home as this to live in. Why, 
a fellow just couldn’t come into such a room as this 
with any filth clinging to him, either outside or in. 
It’s a shrine. And you are a saint,” he added, as he 
drew her to his side and kissed her lovingly. 

Yes, they were very, very happy. 

Nature smiled again on Sam’s farming operations. 
The timely spring rains and the warm spring sunshine 
encouraged the life in the heart of the corn, buried 
with such painstaking care in the rich black loam, to 
aspire toward the light of the upper world. Soon the 
rows of delicate green marked off Sam’s field into 
mathematically exact squares — the pride of the am- 
bitious farmer. There was a green sea, also, where 
Sam had sowed broadcast the golden grains of wheat, 
whose undulating waves chased each other to and fro 
across the field. In the orchard, where Lois had care- 
fully held the young trees upright while Sam as care- 


124 


ULo te ^Morton's Snbegtm ent 


fully straightened out the tender rootlets and covered 
them with soil, the bumblebees were buzzing and hum- 
ming in the red clover like creatures intoxicated with 
life and labor. All nature was showing a smiling face. 

And then a little rift appeared in the lute that had 
made such harmony. 

It was an usually warm day for spring. Lois and 
Sam had arisen early, as was their ^custom. Lois had 
done a big washing and the pleasure she felt in the 
result of her labor, as she surveyed the lines of snowy 
linen, did not make her oblivious to the fact that her 
strength was almost exhausted and there was still 
dinner to get before she could rest. The kitchen, 
which was also dining-room, was hot and uncomfort- 
able. Lois had prided herself on the dainty orderliness 
of her kitchen, and her ability to leave so few traces 
of her cooking operations that the room still looked 
inviting as a dining-room. During the cooler weather 
the warmth from the kitchen range had been very 
agreeable, but today she was wishing she had a dining- 
room separate from the kitchen. She set the table 
as far as possible from the range and placed Sam’s 
plate on the farther side and near the open door. 
Her own was directly in front of the range and not far 
removed. 

Sam had been plowing corn. A broken whiffletree 
had caused a loss of an hour’s time from the field, and 
considerable trouble and annoyance to repair. He 
came in flushed and tired, and complaining of the heat. 
Lois agreed with him listlessly, that it was a very 
warm day. 


2§egtnmng£ 


125 


As he seated himself at the table he said, somewhat 
querulously, “Is it necessary to have such a hot fire 
on a day like this?” 

“Why, Sam, I have been washing, you know, and 
you always want a hot dinner,” Lois said in surprise. 
She rather resented his tone, but tried to keep her own 
free from the annoyance she felt. 

“Well, a man that works as hard as I do ought to 
have a comfortable place to eat his meals in. You 
probably don’t feel the heat as I do,” 

“Don’t feel the heat!” she thought indignantly. 
“When I had to work all the morning over the hot 
steam and then stand over the fire to get dinner, and 
sit with my back to it while I eat!” A sharp retort was 
on the end of her tongue, but she closed her lips tightly 
and controlled herself. 

Sam bolted his dinner and withdrew to the cool 
sitting-room for his usual noonday nap. Lois arose 
from the table, where she had made only a pretense 
at eating, being too warm and tired to have any appe- 
tite, and slowly proceeded to clear away the meal 
and wash the dishes. Her heart was hot with the 
injustice of Sam’s criticism, and she had a feeling of 
contempt for his selfishness. Yes, there was no deny- 
ing the fact, Sam was selfish. Many former little 
evidences of it occurred to her now that he had shown 
it so flagrantly. And if he loved her as he professed 
to do, how could he be so unobserving as not to notice 
how tired she was, or so inconsiderate as to intimate 
that it was her fault that they had not a more com- 
fortable dining-room? 


126 


Hoi* Motion** Snbesrtment 


She hung up her dishpan, washed her hands, and 
wearily climbed the stairs to an upper chamber. Here 
she threw herself on the bed, and cried herself to 
sleep. 

Sam arose refreshed. He was a little surprised not 
to find Lois in her usual place in the blue-and-white 
room, and went through the house calling her. Not re- 
ceiving any answer, he blundered up the stairs, making 
noise enough to wake her if his calling hadn’t. He 
found her motionless on the bed, apparently asleep, 
and tiptoed down again saying to himself, “She’s 
tired, poor little girl! And I was cross to her. Well, 
never mind ; I’ll make it up to her this evening.” 

As Lois stood at the window, after he was gone, and 
watched Sam plodding along in the furrow of the culti- 
vator, she murmured, “Of course he was tired, and the 
sun is awfully hot. Poor Sam, I wish he didn’t have 
to work so hard. I mustn’t mind what he said.” 

At supper-time Sam was so gay and rollicking that 
as they seated themselves at the supper-table they 
were both laughing heartily. Lifting her napkin, Lois 
found a five-dollar bill under its folds. 

“To buy folderols with,” Sam answered her sur- 
prised, inquiring look. “I’m going to town in the 
morning. Do you know any good-looking girl I can 
get to go with me?” 

“I suppose it’s the same as saying he’s sorry,” 
Lois reflected, “and I don’t see why I feel the hurt 
so, still; but if he’d only said, ‘Forgive me,’ I should 
feel happier than if he’d given me five hundred dol- 
lars.” 


®fje Pest pusbanb in ibeben Counties 127 


CHAPTER XIV. 

®fje JBest pusbanb in gbeben Counties 

The summer passed with its long, hot days, and its 
sultry nights when sleep was out of the question until 
the early morning hours after the heated earth had 
cooled somewhat, and then was cut short because of 
the necessity of early rising. The coolness of the 
early morning was the best working-time. Not that 
the work stopped with the increasing heat. Oh, no! 
It would ruin a farmer’s reputation to sit in the shade 
because the mercury was higher than usual. So 
with a cabbage leaf in his hat, Sam plodded back and 
forth in the long corn-rows, or reaped and bound and 
shocked the yellow wheat that was to coin golden 
dollars for him and Lois. Frequently Lois met him 
at the end of the row nearest the house with a glass 
of cool buttermilk, or a lunch of freshly-baked gin- 
gerbread or cookies. Then he would go whistling 
down the field again as happy as any care-free school- 
boy. 

“It’s his way of saying ‘Thank you’ to the Creator 
for his happiness,” Lois smiled to herself, and she re- 
solved anew that she would try to overlook the things 
he said and did, occasionally, that hurt her so. For 
Sam somehow could not realize that she was working 
far beyond her strength. He seemed to think she 
had an easy, comparatively idle, existence. Perhaps 


128 


Hoi* Morton** Snbesrtment 


her custom of making a fresh toilet for afternoon, 
which she adhered to scrupulously no matter how 
busy she might be, and of wearing white and light 
gowns, had something to do with this impression, 
which the neighbors also shared. It was not a general 
custom. 

“Do you change your dress and comb your hair 
every afternoon?” asked Mrs. Baker, her nearest 
neighbor, one day when she had “run over” to bor- 
row a yeast-cake. “Well, of course it’s nice. I’d 
like to, too ; but, laws-a-me, with all the work I have 
to do I think I’m lucky if I get my hair combed once 
a day and two clean dresses a week. But, of course, 
with only two of you, you don’t have as much work 
as I do. Just wait till you’ve been married as long 
as I have,” she added darkly. 

The white dresses made more washing and ironing, 
of course, as, scrupulously neat and careful as she 
was, the heavy work necessarily soiled them sooner 
than her former more leisurely afternoons. But Lois 
clung to them tenaciously, with a blind feeling that 
they were a part of her youth which seemed to be 
slipping away from her. It was not to sit down to 
some dainty embroidery, however, or to an afternoon 
of reading that Lois made her fresh toilets. Very often 
she was obliged to cover the dainty dress with a big 
gingham apron while she continued her interrupted 
tasks ; but it could be slipped off in a minute if a chance 
visitor came, and was always laid aside before Sam 
came in to supper. 

Lois’ tasks were many and various. She kept the 


)t Pesrt in i§>eben Counties 129 


house in shining order, cared for a large flock of chick- 
ens and turkeys, made the sweetest golden pats of 
butter, the surplus of which she marketed, together 
with the eggs from her poultry, at the near-by town 
each Saturday, and with the proceeds supplied their 
table with all the staple groceries. She found she 
was expected to care for the garden — it was the cus- 
tom in the neighborhood, and Sam’s mother had done 
so ; and she must wash and iron, of course. It would 
have been a disgrace for a well woman to hire her wash- 
ing done. Moreover, she could not have found an- 
other woman whom she could hire. They were all 
proud of doing their own washing, and there was great 
rivalry as to whose clothesline should earliest fling 
to the breeze the snowy whiteness of the Monday 
wash. So fierce was the rivalry that a dark suspicion 
was whispered about that a certain woman had actually 
done her washing on Sunday afternoon in order to be 
first to get her clothes on the line the next morning. 
But unless you wished deliberately to insult a woman 
you would not ask her to do your washing, unless you 
were sick, — and then you would not need to ask, for 
offers would be plenty. 

The cooking was a delight, even when she was so 
tired that she had to sit to finish cutting out the 
cookies. But she wouldn’t have had anybody see 
her sitting down to such work — oh, not for a good 
deal! This was another of the laws of custom that 
were as binding on farmers’ wives as any social cus- 
tom on city dwellers. No one might sit to wash 
dishes, for instance, without branding herself as — 


130 


ILoi# Motion’# Snbegtment 


listen, the most contemptuous epithet of the country 
woman — “lazy.” 

Sam was proud of her cooking, and more mortified 
then she was when, as happened once, a friend of 
Sam’s came along just at meal-time and was invited 
to dinner when Lois had not had “good luck” with 
her bread. She was sorry that she could not offer 
him one of her usual sweet, nutty, spongy, snowy 
slices, but she gave the best she had and said nothing 
about it ; seeing which, Sam said, apologetically, 
“This isn’t the kind of bread we usually have,” and 
to Lois, “That last bag of flour must be poor.” 

After the guest had gone Sam said, looking at her 
curiously, “Lois, you are decidedly queer about some 
things. Now any other woman would have apolo- 
gized for that bread. You didn’t want him to think 
that was the best you could do in the bread-making 
line, did you?” 

Lois laughed out merrily, “Oh, Sam, you are so 
proud! You see, somehow I can’t help thinking 
apologies are not very convincing, and it is always 
embarrassing to me to have people apologize, and apol- 
ogize. There’s that little Irish woman down in the 
grove who asks me to tea sometimes. She is a notori- 
ously poor cook, and she apologizes so distressingly! 
I never know what to say, because one can’t honestly 
praise her cooking. I usually get out of it by telling 
her of some blunder of my own. And there’s Mrs. 
Johnson, the most famous cook in the neighborhood. 
You can never sit down to her table without listening 
to a long string of apologies about everything on it, 


®fjc Siefit ^usbanti in gkbett Counties! 131 


when she knows, and you know, and she knows that 
you know, that everything is just about perfect. 
Of course I say all the nice things I can think of, 
praise everything extravagantly; but I get tired of 
talking all the time about the food I’m eating, and 
then one can’t help thinking she is only fishing for 
compliments after all. Sometimes I have the craziest 
temptation to look the table over as we sit down, and 
say, ‘Mrs. Johnson, you are the best cook in the neigh- 
borhood and everything is perfection; now let’s talk 
about something else.’ Wouldn’t she stare if I 
should?” Lois laughed. “And wouldn’t the rest of 
the company stare, too? They’d think I was very 
rude, and Mrs. Johnson would feel as though she had 
been cheated if we all should talk of other things.” 

“Do you remember Orville Jones’ apologies last 
Friday evening at ‘Literary’?” she continued, “Did 
they convince you that he could have made a fine 
speech if he had not been ‘under the weather,’ if he 
had ‘had more time to prepare,’ if he hadn’t had a 
‘misery in his back,’ and so forth and so on?” 

“I think you’ve made your case,” Sam said, laugh- 
ingly. “I shall invite that fellow again next week 
and ‘show him.’ ” 

The summer passed and autumn came. Autumn 
with its garnered harvests, its bending apple trees 
ready to yield up their burdens of gold, and russet, 
and crimson spheres, its gorgeous foliage, and tender, 
mystic, Indian-summer haze. This had always been 
a time of delight for Lois, of excursions to the woods 


132 


ILoi# Motion* $ Snbestfment 


for autumn leaves, for nuts, for nothing in particular 
except to revel in the beauty of the woods. But now 
the fall plowing must be done, the corn must be picked, 
the wheat hauled to market, and the winter’s supply 
of coal brought back, and the teams were kept busy. 
Neither had she much leisure from her own prepara- 
tions for winter. There was canning and preserving 
and pickling, apple-butter to make, mince-meat and 
scrapple to make ready, hams and bacon to cure and 
lard to try out. The winter’s supply of apples and 
vegetables must be safely stored from both frost and 
heat. Some new bedding must be made, and not 
only her own clothing but Sam’s underwear and shirts. 
Some of the neighbor- women also knitted mittens and 
socks for their men-folks, but Lois drew the line at 
knitting. She was bound she would have some time 
for her loved books in the long winter evenings. 

Only from a distance could she view the glories of 
the autumn woods. Often and often she stood on the 
back porch and gazed longingly at the blaze of color 
on the bluffs down the river. 

“Aren’t the woods unusually beautiful this fall?” 
she asked of Sam one morning when he had stopped 
by her side and placed his arm about her as she stood 
gazing at them with hungry eyes. 

“ Why, I hadn’t noticed that they were any different 
from the usual,” he said carelessly. 

“Perhaps not, they are always so beautiful. Oh, 
Sam, couldn’t we take a day off and go nutting and 
woodsing?” she asked wistfully. 


®fje JSest Husbatrij in S>cUen Counties 133 


“When I am so busy with the fall work?” Sam 
asked in astonishment; “Lois, I am surprised at 
you.” 

Lois sighed, and went back to her work. She liked 
to work. She was interested in her work and took 
a great deal of pride in its successful accomplishment. 
But this morning she worked without enthusiasm. 
Presently she smiled, ruefully, and said to herself, 
“I’m afraid ‘all work and no play’ is making me as 
dull as ‘Jack.’ ” 

Sam had been hauling wheat to Dicksburg for sev- 
eral days. He was taking the last load that morning. 
While he scooped and tossed the plump, golden grains 
into the big farm wagon he was thinking of the dis- 
appointed look on Lois’ face. “It’s all foolishness,” 
he told himself, “to knock off work and go to the 
woods just to wander around and exclaim over red 
and yellow leaves. The neighbors would jolly me 
good and plenty if they knew it. Oh, well, who cares? 
If Lois wants to go it’s nobody’s business, I guess.” 
Still he hesitated, till the idea came to him that he 
might bring home a “jag of wood,” and thus offer 
some excuse to the neighbors for going. 

“Lois,” he called, as he was driving out the gate. 

She came to the door. 

“Say, Lois, if you can ride home on a load of wood 
you may go with me to the woods this afternoon. 
I’ll be back from town by noon.” 

“I’d ride on a broomstick if I could, or anything 
to get me there, I’m so crazy to go. I’ll fix up a nice 


134 


Hoist jdlorton’st Stibesthnent 


lunch, Sam, and we’ll just have a picnic,” she answered 
happily. “I wish you’d come in here so I could hug 
you without scandalizing the neighbors,” she added. 

“Save it till I get back,” he laughed; “I must 
hurry now. Anything you want from town?” 

“Nothing but the best husband in seven counties,” 
she called, as she blew him a kiss from the tips of her 
fingers. 


JBicfesburg enterprise 


135 


CHAPTER XV 

©iefesburg enterprise 

“Hello, Joe. Come in and have something.” 

“Don’t care if I do. What’s doing, Cap?” 

“S-h! Come on back here. Two straight, Curley,” 
to the bartender, as they passed into the “Dicksburg 
Dandy Saloon.” 

The bartender brought the two glasses to the table 
in the corner, then as he went back to his place the 
man addressed as “Cap” leaned across the table and 
in low tones the two carried on a guarded conver- 
sation. 

“Bringing his wheat to town, you say?” 

“Yes, last load today.” 

“M-m-m-m — five or six hundred ” 

“Used to drink before he was married. M-m-m — 
easy upset, and ” 

“Cards or dice?” 

“Don’t believe we can — More than a year ” 

“M-m-m-m-m — leave — to me ” 

So they plotted, these human hyenas, to rob a hard- 
working young man of the results of six months’ toil, 
in the legalized saloon of Dicksburg, by the respectable 
way of gambling. 

“Respectable?” you ask. Yes, in Dicksburg, at 
that time. Oh, certainly there were some men and 
not a few women living in this enterprising town who 


136 


ILoiti jHorton'si Snbcstment 


disapproved both of saloons and gambling; but the 
leading men, those who dictated the policy of the city 
government, said, “We must have this revenue from 
the saloons to meet the expenses of the city.” Few 
were bold enough to say anything to the contrary. 
“It is too bad that we have to have the saloons, but I 
guess we do,” some mild-mannered good man was heard 
to remark occasionally. Very little attention was 
paid by anybody to what went on inside of them, al- 
though it was well known that much money was lost 
and won in gambling in these places. 

“Cap,” who was a leading politician of the county, 
met Sam as he left the bank with the wheat-money 
in his pocket. 

“ Why, hello, Smith ! Glad to see you. Don’t have 
that pleasure very often nowadays. They say you’re 
working like a Turk. Mustn’t stick too close to the 
farm; there are other things that are easier. Say, 
what’s the matter with letting us put you up for County 
Clerk? Speilman will not be a candidate again — 
too unpopular with the boys — and we’ve got to find 
some one else. I was telling Colonel Johnson, the 
other day, that you were just the man for the place — 
good education, smart as a whip, genial and approach- 
able. What do you say? Wait, there’s Joe Camp, 
best wirepuller in the county. Hello, Joe! Come over 
here.” 

Joe greeted Sam warmly. 

“Joe, I’ve just been urging Smith, here, to let us 
run him for County Clerk. He’s sure to be elected 
if you’ll push him.” 


©ickstmvg enterprise 


137 


“Just the man! Just the right man for the right 
office! Glad to do anything I can for you, Smith.” 

Sam was surprised, and pleased, of course; what 
young man wouldn’t be at such flattering proposals 
from leading men in the political world of his county. 
He was beginning, modestly, to express doubt about 
his ability to get a majority of the votes, when “Cap,” 
who had adroitly steered the party down the street 
as they talked till they were now in front of the Dicks- 
burg Dandy Saloon, said, “Let’s go in here and talk 
the matter over. There’s no one in except Curly, 
and we can go into the back room where we will not 
be disturbed. — I tell you, Smith, you’re sure to get 
there if you just say the word, and the salary is more 
than you can make in two years on the farm, and nice, 
easy work.” 

Sam held back for a moment. He really did not 
want to go into the saloon, but— no, he couldn’t say 
so to these men. He was a man of affairs now. Plenty 
of men went into Curley’s just on business. He wasn’t 
going to drink, so what harm was there in stopping 
there just for a business conference? 

They talked the matter over. Sam heard all about 
how many votes this man could “swing,” how the 
miners’ vote went just as Old Epperson said, and much 
other information which would be valuable, so “Cap” 
said. 

“Here, Smith, you take a pencil and paper and let’s 
estimate the vote. Joe, tell Curley to bring us each 
a glass of cider,” and he winked one eye at Joe.” 


138 


%oi& Motion^ Snbetftment 


Sam started as “Cap” said “glass,” but “cider” — 
he couldn’t make a fuss about cider. 

So they sipped their cider (?) as they talked and 
figured. Joe filled the glasses again and again. Sam 
grew elated and agreed to make a canvass. They 
congratulated him in advance on the “sure thing” of 
his election. They were a very jolly party. 

“Before we go let’s have a game of ‘seven up’ in 
memory of old times. You always used to beat me, 
Sam, you loafer, but I’ll bet you a ‘fiver’ you can’t do 
it now. You’re out of practice now. Joe, here, will 
hold the stakes.” 

Sam was elated. His “cider” was mounting to his 
head. He felt equal to anything. 

Why go into detail any further? Before they left 
the room the two thieves had his money. 

It sobered Sam, somewhat, when he realized that 
his money was all gone, and his lumber bill not yet 
paid. He got angry, and called his friends hard names. 

“Cap” soothed him. Got the story of the lumber 
bill out of him, and then said, in his oily, benevolent, 
paternal voice: “It’s too bad, Smith. You played in 
hard luck today. But, say, don’t worry about that 
bill. I know where you can borrow the money on as 
long time as you please. Come, I’ll sign the note with 
you. There’s nobody I’d rather do a favor for than 
you, Sam.” 

“ Cap ” piloted him to a loan office, explained to the 
very respectable occupant of it, the Mayor of Dicks- 
burg, that owing to the dry weather Smith’s wheat 
crop was not more than half a yield, and he found 


jBitfessfmrg dCnterpritfc 


139 


himself short of money to meet his obligations. He 
needed two hundred and sixty dollars. If the mayor 
would loan him that amount he, “Cap,” would gladly 
sign the note for an old friend like Smith. 

The Honorable Mayor indicated by a sly wink that 
he quite understood the situation. 

So with his poor wits still muddled, Sam borrowed 
the money, giving a mortgage on his stock, paid his 
bill, and after another round of drinks with his good 
friends, started for home. 


140 


liois Norton's Snbeistment 


CHAPTER XVI 

®fje (gamut 

Lois went singing gaily about her tasks after Sam 
started for town, her deft skill accomplishing them 
with amazing rapidity. With rounded arms bared she 
mixed and beat and rolled floury masses, and by skilled 
alchemy brought forth from the blackness of the oven 
brown and golden cakes, flaky pies, puffy rolls and 
crisp cookies, while an odor that rivaled the breezes 
that are wafted from the isles of spice filled the kitch- 
en. The forenoon hours passed rapidly. The clock 
was on the stroke of twelve and the dinner was smok- 
ing on the range all ready to serve. Sam must have 
been delayed in some way. Well, never mind; she 
would put up the lunch while she waited, then she 
could get the dishes done while Sam was hitching up 
after dinner, and could leave everything in apple-pie 
order. “Oh, it will be just glorious in the woods this 
afternoon,” she said aloud. 

“Oh, dear, I wonder why he is so late?” she said 
to herself as the minute-hand pointed to half-past 
twelve; “I’ll go out and look for him,” and acting 
on her impulse at once she ran swiftly out to the gate, 
and, shading her eyes with her hand, searched the long 
country lane. The white, dusty road stretched 
straight away between its dark green hedges on either 
side for about a mile, then it sloped up a gradual in- 


]t (gamut 


141 


cline for a half-mile, where it was lost to sight on the 
downward slope of the other side of the hill. He wasn’t 
in sight, and even if he were just over the hill it would 
take twenty minutes yet for him to reach home. She 
would go and put the feed in the mangers ready for 
the team ; yes, and she could feed the hogs and water 
the calves so that Sam could come in to dinner just 
as soon as the horses were unhitched. 

“I suppose it has taken a little longer today than 
usual because he was to settle up and get his money. 
It ought not to take very long to pay the one bill for 
the fencing. He’d just walk from the grain dealer’s 
to the lumber yard. Maybe he’d have to get a check 
cashed, or something like that. I’ll look again to see 
if he’s coming.” 

Still he wasn’t in sight. 

“The dinner will be spoiled. I ought not to have 
put it on so soon, but then, he said he would be home 
by noon. Well, I’ll change my dress and get all 
ready to go and then watch for him from the south 
window upstairs. When I see him come over the 
hill I’ll warm things up and have them piping hot by 
the time he gets here. He’ll be so hungry that may- 
be he won’t mind if things are warmed over. Dear 
old Sam! I know he hadn’t intended to get that 
wood today, but just changed his plans about his work 
so that I could go to the woods. But it will do him 
good, too, to get away from the monotony of the farm 
work for a little while, he works so hard and takes so 
little recreation,” 


142 


Hote JWortoute Snbestment 


She seated herself at the south window to watch. 
For a while she let her fancy revel in the anticipated 
delights of the woods. She would bring home some 
ferns and have a pot of them with which to decorate 
the table after the flowers were all gone. She knew 
just the sheltered, mossy nook where they grew. She 
would get some bitter-sweet vine to twine over the 
windows and brighten up the sitting-room during 
the winter. And autumn leaves! She’d bring home 
a bushel of scarlet and yellow maple, crimson oak and 
ivy, and oh, all the riches of the forest she would 
plunder to make her own little nest just the most 
charming place in the world. 

‘‘Why doesn’t Sam come? I’m afraid he has had 
some accident,” and she let her mind dwell for a little 
while on possible accidents that might happen to 
him — a runaway team, a break-down. “Oh,” and 
she caught her breath with a gasp, “what if a train 
should come rushing in just as he was crossing the 
railroad track?” 

“This won’t do,” and she arose and shook herself, 
“I am getting nervous with my fancies. I must find 
something to do.” 

As she came into the kitchen she was reminded that 
she had not yet had her dinner and it was now two 
o’clock. “Just to pass away the time I think I’ll 
eat my dinner. When Sam comes I’ll pretend to eat 
again with him.” 

The afternoon dragged itself endlessly along till 
four. Then she saw a team and wagon with one man 
in it coming over the hill. 


TOje (gamut 


143 


“That is surely Sam. Yes, the horses are grays.” 
Downstairs she flew, mended the fire, put fresh pota- 
toes on to cook, put the roast back into the oven, made 
fresh coffee, glancing out once or twice to make sure 
that the team had not turned off on some other road. 

Here he was, right at the gate. The horses stood 
there waiting. 

“Why doesn’t he get out and open it? Oh, dear, 
he has had some accident!” and out she flew, calling 
“Sam, Sam, dear, what is the matter?” 

“Open the gate,” he said in a queer, muffled voice. 

She opened it, wonderingly. The horses went on 
and stopped in the barnyard. She closed the gate and 
hurried after them. 

“Sam, are you sick, or hurt?” she asked anxiously. 

“Don’t feel very well,” he said. “Just help me 
down, will you?” 

She gave him her hand. He put one hand on her 
shoulder, and leaning heavily on her he stumbled into 
the house and dropped onto the couch in the sitting- 
room. 

Lois’ face was a study. It had gone white with fear 
when he asked her to help him down. She looked at 
him doubtfully now, and asked, “What is it, Sam? 
What ails you?” She was sure she smelled alcohol, 
but she couldn’t believe — “It’s the medicine some 
doctor has been giving him,” she told herself hastily. 
“What ails you, Sam?” she again asked. 

“Nothing much,” he said thickly. “Just gimme a 
drink of water, will you?” 

She brought a pitcher of water and poured him a 


144 


ILoix Motion* & Snbesftment 


tumblerful. He drank it down and held out the glass 
for another. “More,” he said, and the third time she 
filled it while she looked at him with eyes like a wounded 
deer’s, and a face from which all the blood had fled 
back to the shrinking heart. When he had gulped 
down the third glassful he fell back on the couch 
heavily, dropping the tumbler with a crash from his 
shaking hand. 

Mechanically Lois stooped and picked up the pieces 
of the broken glass. Then she went out to where the 
patient team was still standing, unhitched them, gave 
them water, led them into the barn, where she re- 
moved their harness and hung it up carefully, put on 
their halters and tied each in his stall where oats and 
hay were ready for him. 

As she came out into the sunshine again she put 
her hand to her heart and stood looking around her 
in a dazed sort of way for several minutes, then slowly 
walked toward the house, where she dropped down 
on the step of the back porch and with her elbow on 
her knee and chin in the palm of her hand she gazed 
off across the orchard without seeming to see anything. 
Half an hour later she was roused from her stupor 
by Sam’s voice calling for more water. 

She waited on him quietly and deftly, but she asked 
no more questions. She did the evening chores, left 
a pitcher of water on a chair near the head of Sam’s 
couch, and went upstairs. Here she fell on her knees, 
and looking up into the starry sky she cried, “O God, 
what shall I do? What shall I do ? ” Midnight found 
her still kneeling there, 


®f)e <©amut 


145 


Sam was stirring very early the next morning. He 
looked into the blue-and-white room and found its 
snowy bed undisturbed. For a minute a fear clutched 
his heart that Lois might have gone home to her 
father’s. Then he heard her step descending the stairs. 
He expected she had been crying. Her eyes would 
be all red and swollen. But he was not prepared for 
the white, stricken face that, after one glance, turned 
dull eyes away from him and would have passed him 
without a word. 

“Lois, Lois! Oh, my precious little wife!” Sam 
caught her to his heart. “Forgive me, darling. I 
never meant to break your heart. Oh, I’m a fool, an 
idiot! but I am not a knave. I did not mean to 
drink — God knows I never meant to, Lois. It was 
only cider. I didn’t drink a thing but cider. I didn’t 
go deliberately and drink that, either. A man whom 
I thought was my friend asked me to have a glass of 
cider with him, and — you wouldn’t understand, Lois, 
but I couldn’t refuse without seeming churlish, and — 
and — I don’t know how it happened, Lois, but I know 
I didn’t drink a thing but cider, Oh, I’m a beast! a 
brute! to come home to you like that, but little girl, 
it just kills me to see you look like this! Can’t you 
ever love me again?” 

“Oh, Sam, I was so afraid of you last night,” she 
sobbed. “You looked so like your father, that day — 
that day — 

Sam groaned in agony. 


146 


TLoig Motion* & Snbetftment 


CHAPTER XVII 

gbetomg anb leaping 

With winter came a letting-up of the work on the 
farm and also of Lois’ work. She found some time 
now for such “foolishness” as embroidery, and was 
engaged on some dainty little garments to which she 
gave many decorative touches. 

The delight of fashioning tiny, dainty, lovely little 
garments for a little being who is a part of one’s life, 
and anticipated with loving longing, is almost as 
great — almost? yes, greater even, in the real mother 
nature, than is the selecting or making of her own 
wedding clothes. There was only one blur on the 
radiance of Lois’ joy. She had the feeling that every 
expectant mother, who is worthy of the name, has, 
that there is nothing too good, or fine, or dainty for 
the coming king; and she longed with all her ardent, 
artistic nature, for soft flannels, fine linens, dainty em- 
broideries and filmy laces, with which to make ready for 
the coming of this crowning joy of her life. But these 
things were expensive, and Sam seemed strangely neg- 
lectful of her wants. 

The truth was that Sam was “pinching” and econ- 
omizing more than usual in order to pay off that note, 
which humiliated and shamed him every time he 
thought of it. He hadn’t told Lois about that. It 
was done and couldn’t be helped now ; and it was really 


Vetoing anb leaping 


147 


as much for her sake, he told himself, as for his own, 
that he refrained from telling her. She abhorred 
drinking — he didn’t know how she would bear it if 
she knew that he had also been gambling. 

“I must pay off that note as soon as I possibly can. 
I shall feel like a criminal as long as that is hanging 
over me,” he said often to himself. 

Lois was economizing, too, so far as her own cloth- 
ing was concerned. “I shall not need many things for 
myself this winter,” she told Sam as they were getting 
ready to go to Dicksburg one Saturday. She felt 
that he ought not to have obliged her to even hint in 
this delicate way for the money she needed. 

Sam smiled knowingly, and pinched her cheek. 
“Will a ‘fiver’ do?” he asked. Then seeing the dis- 
appointment in her face, he added quickly, “Or say 
we make it a ten.” He really thought this was munif- 
icent. 

Lois understood his thought, and, concealing any 
further disappointment she felt, said brightly, “Ten 
dollars will buy material enough to keep me busy for 
some time.” 

She had made her purchases carefully, getting the 
best material Dicksburg afforded of such things as 
she did get. There were many things needed still, 
and she hesitated to ask Sam again for money. Sam 
was different, somehow; he had not used to be so 
“close” about money. At such a time as this, too! 
Why, she had expected that he would be more generous 
than usual, that he would gladly and joyously open 
his purse and give her all she wanted. It had been 


148 


Hois Ulorton’g Snbegtment 


a good season. There had been no heavy expenses. 
The butter and egg money had paid for nearly every- 
thing they had wanted from town. Sam must have 
money in the bank from the sale of the wheat. She 
could not understand what made him so “different.” 

And what was this impalpable barrier that had 
come between them, like the ghost of a shadow? She 
could not give it a name, she could only feel that 
there was not the close unity, the perfect frankness, 
the soul communion that had been theirs during 
the first few months of their married life. Was she 
to blame? Oh, she tried so hard to forget that awful 
day! She would forget. She wouldn’t even let her- 
self think now of such a thing as a possible barrier. 
There wasn’t any such thing. There must not be any- 
thing. There shouldn’t be anything to separate them. 
“I’m supersensitive,” she told herself. “Of course 
Sam doesn’t understand. He thought ten dollars was 
plenty. I’ll just tell him frankly that it isn’t.” 

She went singing happily about her work of getting 
the evening meal. She made Sam’s favorite tea bis- 
cuits. She brought up a jar of his favorite jam. She 
gave the tea-table a few extra touches by using some 
of her prettiest dishes that she didn’t use every day. 

The cynic may smile in his unwisdom. He no more 
understands the motives that prompt the loyal, lov- 
ing heart of a wife to prepare the husband’s favorite 
dishes than he does a woman’s “because.” He sus- 
pects her, sometimes, of trying to reach his pocket- 
book by way of his gastronomical regions. It never 
seems to occur to him that it may be her way of satis- 


Vetoing anb leaping 


149 


fying her conscience — making up to him, as it were, by 
these extra efforts on her part to please him, for some 
disloyal thought she has been entertaining in regard 
to him, or some trifling neglect of him; just as the 
husband atones for his shortcomings by flowers or 
theater tickets. And Love prompts them both. 

No, Lois was no more capable of deliberately plan- 
ning to get money from Sam by catering to his tastes 
in this way than she was of stealing. But after sup- 
per was over, with the thought of the “frankness” on 
her part that would probably restore the old intimate, 
heart-to-heart fellowship between them, Lois perched 
herself on the arm of Sam’s chair. After some re- 
partee and nonsense, he asked, “What have you been 
busying yourself about today?” 

This was just the opening she wanted, and she re- 
plied, quickly, “Come and see.” She led the way to 
the blue-and-white room, and opening the lower 
bureau drawer she took out a dainty, lace-trimmed 
little nightgown and spread it out to his admiring 
gaze. Then one after another she displayed the evi- 
dences of her loving forethought and preparation. 

“Surely these are fine enough for the king’s daugh- 
ter,” Sam said admiringly. 

“But Sam, dear, I haven’t enough yet, and the 
money’s all gone.” 

Was that a shadow that passed over his face and 
changed it? After a moment of hesitancy he said, 
cheerfully enough, “If that’s the case then we’ll have 
to get some.” 


150 


Hots fHorton's Snbesttnent 


The next morning Lois saw with surprise, that Sam 
was loading a couple of hogs into the wagon. 

“The hogs are not ready for market yet, are they?” 
she asked as he came in to say “Good-by” before 
starting for Dicksburg. 

“Not quite, but I need some ready money,” he 
replied. 

“Why, Sam, haven’t you any money?” she said in 
surprise; “I thought you had most of the wheat 
money left. Won’t it be a loss to sell the hogs now, 
before they are fattened?” 

“Yes, but I guess I must.” 

“But Sam, what did become of the wheat money? 
You told me that there were no debts except the lum- 
ber bill for the fencing, and that was only two hun- 
dred, and the wheat brought a little more than five 
hundred. I thought we were in easy circumstances 
for money.” 

Sam did not know what to say. He did not want 
to tell Lois a lie, he could not possibly tell her the 
truth, now. She was looking him straight in the eyes 
and his eyes fell before hers. At last he said, im- 
patiently, “A man doesn’t have to give an account 
to his wife for every cent he spends, does he?” and 
went out, slamming the door behind him. 

He was no sooner outside than he began to regret 
his impatience and churlishness. “She had a right 
to ask,” he admitted to himself. “Now she’ll go 
imagining all sorts of things that I spent that money 
for. What a confounded fool I was!” But he went 
on to town with his hogs. 


Vetoing anti leaping 


151 


That evening he laid a ten-dollar bill on the table 
by Lois’ plate, saying, in an attempt at jocularity. 
“That’s to buy more lace to keep the little one warm.” 

Lois, who had been unusually quiet since he came 
home, and whose swollen eyes told the story of her 
unhappy day, burst into tears and left the room with 
no motion to take the money. 

“Oh, blame it all! Can’t I open my mouth with- 
out putting my foot in it ? Now she thinks I am accus- 
ing her of wasting money on unnecessary finery.” 

Should he follow her and try to explain? If he 
did he’d have to apologize for his hasty words of the 
morning. Of course he ought to apologize, but — then 
there would have to be explanations about the wheat 
money. . . Poor little girl! he just couldn’t leave her 
in there breaking her heart about a misunderstanding. 
“Confound it all! If I hadn’t been such an egotistical 
idiot I’d have caught on to Old Cap’s game. The 
little girl could have had all the money she wanted for 
finery, and I needn’t have gone around here afraid to 
have her look me in the eye for fear she’d see through 
me.” 

He went into the bedroom and put his arms about 
the sobbing figure on the bed, saying, “Lois, dear, I 
didn’t mean anything by that remark. I don’t think 
it’s foolish or wasteful for you to buy all the lace and 
finery you want. I want you to do it. I like to see 
it. And I was mean to you this morning. You have 
a right, a perfect right to know what becomes of the 
money. Aren’t we partners in this firm? I did a 
foolish thing — I see now that I ought not to have done 


152 


Hote Jtlorton’iS Snbejitment 


it — but I had a friend who needed money badly, and I 
loaned him the three hundred I had left after paying the 
lumber bill. It has left me short of ready money and 
I haven’t given you as much as I ought to, but I want 
you to use that ten, and if you need another I’ll get 
it for you somehow.” 

“Oh, Sam! I wish you’d understand. I don’t want 
to be extravagant, and if I had only known that we 
couldn’t afford it I would have bought plainer and 
cheaper materials.” 

“I don’t want you to buy cheap materials. I want 
you to have the best and nicest there is. We can af- 
ford them, all right. I shall have money coming in 
pretty soon.” 

The next day, happening to put his fingers into his 
vest pocket for a dime he drew out a ten-dollar bill, 
which he knew was the one he had given Lois the day 
before. He stared at it for a long minute, then he said, 
under his breath, “Didn’t she believe that lie?” 

He went into the house and found Lois engaged in 
ripping up one of her own white dresses. “What are 
you doing that for?” he asked. 

“Oh, I’m just making it over,” she replied. But 
evasiveness did not come easy to Lois’ straightforward 
nature, and Sam wasn’t satisfied with her answer. 

“Making it over for yourself?” he persisted. 

“Never mind, Sam. What do you care what I do 
with my dresses?” 

“Lois what are you going to do with that dress?” 
Sam demanded. 


Vetoing anti leaping 


153 


“ Well, if you must know, I am going to make some 
smaller ones out of it. It’s perfectly good. I’ve 
never worn it much.” 

“Lois, you shan’t do it! Here, take this bill. 
What made you put it back in my pocket?” 

“I couldn’t spend it, Sam, and feel right about it. 
It is extravagance to sell your stock before it is ready 
for market to buy things that are not necessities. 
And really this will do nicely and I shall be happier, 
a great deal happier in this little economy, than I could 
be in spending more money than we can afford.” 

Sam went outdoors with a strange look on his face. 
“ Second-hand, made-over dresses for her first baby ! 
Fool! Idiot! The next man that says ‘drink’ to me 
will get knocked into the middle of next week!” 


154 


Hots jWorton’s Snbestment 


CHAPTER XVIII 

gmttjSfjine aub H>f)atioto 

With the blossoms of springtime the baby came — 
the fairest blossom earth can produce. Lois lay on 
her snowy pillows in the blue-and-white room wor- 
shipping him — a veritable madonna. Sam hung over 
them both, with wonder and pride in his eyes when 
he looked at his boy, and with all the reverent worship 
of the man’s nature for a mother stirring the inmost 
depths of his heart, for Lois. He felt at once so humble 
and so proud, so unworthy of this great happiness, and 
such a swelling desire to make himself worthy. 

“Little mother, I am almost afraid of you and the 
boy,” he said to Lois; you both seem so pure and 
angelic that sometimes I’m afraid you’ll see what an 
ordinary sinner I am, and that I shall come in here 
some morning and find that you have both gone back 
to heaven where you belong.” 

“Oh, hush, Sam. I am so full of faults, myself, 
that I need to get rid of in order to make myself the 
kind of a mother I want to be, that I haven’t time to 
notice anybody else’s. You’re just the dearest hus- 
band in all the world, and I never loved you so much 
as I do this minute.” 

All the differences and misunderstandings, the hurt 
pride and wounded love of the past year were pushed 
so far in the background that they were forgotten, 


ibunstyme anb gbijaboto 


155 


and Lois and Sam lived in the radiant happiness of 
this, the crowning joy of their lives. 

The question of a name for the baby soon absorbed 
them. 

“ I don’t think much of this custom of naming a baby 
for its kinfolks,” Sam said thoughtfully. “If I have 
ten boys I don’t want any of ’em named Samuel. 
No one ever calls a boy or man Samuel; it’s always 
Sam. Not that I’d want anyone to call me Samuel; 
I wouldn’t. But Sam is so familiar; such a kind of 
slap-you-on-the-back, rowdy sort of name.” 

“I never thought of it that way,” said Lois in sur- 
prise. “To me the name, as associated with you any- 
how, always seemed to mean friendliness, helpfulness, 
a kindly interest in one’s fellow-men ; some such per- 
sonality as the mythical figure which personifies our 
government — our Uncle Sam.” 

“I’m glad to know you feel that way about it. I 
wonder,” he said musingly, “if any such feeling in re- 
gard to me prompts Sarah Ellen in her persistent call- 
ing me ‘Uncle Sam’?” 

“Oh, you can’t tell what whimsical notion moves 
Sarah Ellen. I think she does it, partly at least, to 
tease you. She knows you don’t like it very well.” 

“Well, this boy of ours shall have a nicer name than 
Sam. Since he has to have my distinguished family 
name,” Sam continued jokingly, “I think he ought 
to have yours also, to help designate which Smith.” 

“But I wouldn’t want to call him Morton. The 
idea of saying to a baby, ‘Morton, ’oo ’ittle tootsey 
wootsey darling ! ’ ” 


156 


ICote i#torton'£ Subestment 


“But he won’t always be a baby, and Morton is a 
very dignified name for a man.” 

“It’s a long time till he will be a man. When he 
goes to school the boys would call him ‘Mort.’ Mor- 
ton will do very well for a middle name, but we must 
have something else — something that will not sound 
so cold, and formal, and grown-up-a-fied, for the ten- 
der, loving word that will stand for our darling son.” 

“All right. Morton it shall be, then, for the middle 
name. Say, little mother, we seem to be naming 
this baby backwards. Now what for his front name? 
He had one to start with, and I have found another ; 
it’s your turn to find his last, first name.” 

“How would Ralph do? That’s a sober, dignified 
name for a man, the boys couldn’t nickname it, and 
just while he is real little I could call him Ralphie.” 

“Ralph it shall be. Hello here, Master Ralph Mor- 
ton Smith, how do you like your new name? Let’s 
shake hands on it. Don’t trouble yourself to say any- 
thing, but if you like your name just squeeze my fin- 
ger,” and Sam opened carefully, the tiny closed fist, 
which instantly closed tightly about his finger and 
clung to it. 

“See, little mother, he likes it. He thinks it’s 
fine,” and they both laughed like happy children. 

It is wonderful what an added zest a tiny little 
piece of humanity in the form of a baby can give to 
life! He was a daily delight. All Lois’ and Sam’s 
plans centered around the baby. Even the work had 
to be arranged largely with reference to his comfort. 

The spring and summer passed rapidly and happily 


gmttstfnne anb 


157 


away. Lois and Sam were both working hard, al- 
though Lois gave up some of her outdoor tasks for the 
baby’s sake. They took very little time from the 
work for social intercourse with their neighbors. 
Their weekly trips to town had always given the change 
and variety, the opportunity for social chat that coun- 
try people appreciate and enjoy on Saturday after- 
noons. Sam now took these trips alone, and while 
he never stopped for mere loafing, there was never- 
theless, the pleasurable excitement of seeing new 
faces and exchanging greetings with neighbors and 
friends, that belongs to healthful mental life. 

“Whom did you see in town today? Did you hear 
any news in town? Did the show-windows look 
pretty?” These and similar questions that Lois asked 
so frequently and so eagerly, ought to have helped 
Sam to see that she was staying at home too closely. 
For, except for an occasional Sunday dinner at her 
father’s and once in a great while at some neighbor’s, 
and two or three church services during the summer, 
she and little Ralph kept quietly at home. This was 
good for the baby, no doubt, and it was his health 
and growth they were both giving most thought to. 
Lois was not following custom in this respect. The 
other mothers of the neighborhood went everywhere 
just as usual, after their babies were a few weeks old, 
taking the baby along. But it broke into baby’s 
regular times for eating and sleeping, made him nerv- 
ous and fretful, and Lois soon decided that her first 
duty in life was to see that her baby was given the 


158 


TLoi& jfWorton'tf Snbeartment 


very best chance possible to develop into a perfectly 
healthful childhood. 

Self-sacrifice comes very easy to a devoted mother. 
She doesn’t even realize that it is self-sacrifice. Sam 
had always taken too willingly, and too much as a 
matter of course, Lois’ unselfish giving of her time and 
strength, and the putting aside of her own wishes for 
his interests. He now accepted, as a matter of course, 
this same unselfish devotion to their boy. A less self- 
ish man would have seen how the care and monotony 
were wearing on her. She realized, in a dim way, her 
need. 

“It would do me good, I believe, just to go to town 
tomorrow, for nothing in particular except to see folks 
and things,” she said one Friday evening. 

“Do you think it would do the baby good? If you 
really do not need to go, Lois, I believe you’d better 
not. There’s always so much danger that some of the 
babies in the stores may have whooping-cough, or 
scarlet fever, or something contagious.” 

“I suppose I’d better not,” she acquiesced, “but 
I am so tired of staying at home so closely,” she said 
with a sigh. 

“I wish I could stay at home. It isn’t any fun for 
me to go to town.” 

Sam really believed what he said was the truth, but 
he would have felt like a prisoner if he had been obliged 
to stay at home a month, even. 

Soon the cold weather made a further reason for 
Lois’ home-keeping. Little Ralph must be guarded 


ibunstfnne anb grfjaboto 


159 


from cold. He had once or twice frightened them with 
symptoms of croup. But the long evenings, when 
they read aloud to each other, after little Ralph was 
put to bed, were restful and delightful; so Lois did 
not much mind the confinement of home while she 
had the society of her husband. 

The Friday night ‘ Literary ’ took him from her 
first. 

“I shall have to go to the ‘Literary’ tonight, Lois,” 
he had announced one evening in the late fall. 

“Have to?” she queried smilingly. 

“Well, you see, they have elected me president, and 
they expect me to come regularly.” 

“Oh, if expecting is all, I can do some expecting, 
too. Just tell them that your wife expects you to 
stay at home with her and the baby,” Lois said half 
in jest, but feeling that it wasn’t quite fair for Sam to 
leave her to lonely evenings. 

“I hope you don’t think I am going just for amuse- 
ment,” he said in an aggrieved tone. 

“Oh, no, I imagine it is out of pure benevolence,” 
Lois retorted sarcastically. 

This angered Sam, whose quick temper was never 
very well under his control, and he replied in a cold, 
and what he intended to be a very dignified, manner, 
“You ought to realize that a man must make a place 
for himself in the public life of the community in which 
he lives, and that a woman’s standing in any society 
depends on her husband’s place of honor in that com- 
munity.” 

Contrary to his expectation, the thought of Sam’s 


160 


Hot* Norton's Snbestm ent 


going to the Happy Valley Literary for honors to lay 
at her feet struck Lois as funny, and she laughed. 

Sam stalked out in pompous dignity, and slammed 
the door. 

The laugh died out of her eyes and a somber look 
of desolation came into them. How could Sam even 
hint that it was necessary for him to make a place for 
her in the Valley society? Had he forgotten how much 
she had helped him to the standing he now had? Of 
course she would never think of reminding him of that ; 
but why should he be so arrogant? It wasn’t fair. 
She wondered if she were selfish to want Sam to stay 
at home evenings with her. It seemed to her only fair 
that, while she was so closely confined at home on ac- 
count of the baby, he should keep her company in the 
long winter evenings. “I can keep in good spirits 
through the day with little Ralph for company, but 
in the evening I do get so lonesome when Sam isn’t 
here,” she sighed. Then memories of the good times 
Katie and others of her girl friends were having, came 
to her mind with a wish that she could share some of 
them. “Not that I’d give up my baby for all the 
parties and other good times — but — ” 

Lois never questioned Sam about the “Literary,” 
and it remained a sore subject between them ; but she 
tried to keep cheerful and be interesting and enter- 
taining on the evenings that he did spend at home. 
And then one day a new cloud appeared on her hori- 
zon. 

“I have been thinking,” Sam said one day, “that 
you would have very little ready money, only a poorly 


Hmnstfjtne anb IHmboto 


161 


stocked farm, and some debts to pay, if I should die, 
and I’m afraid you’d have rather a hard time.” 

“Why, Sam, aren’t you well? What makes you 
talk of such a dreadful thing?” 

“Yes, I’m perfectly well, and not expecting to die 
soon, but you know that death often comes suddenly 
to those who least expect it. It seems to me that any 
right-minded man would want to feel that his wife 
and family were provided for in case of his death, and 
I have been thinking of joining a lodge where I can 
also have a life insurance.” 

“Oh, Sam, don’t. I couldn’t bear to take money 
to pay me for your loss. The idea seems horrible 
to me.” 

“It needn’t if you look at it rightly. Suppose I 
accumulate a bank account of a considerable amount. 
You wouldn’t feel any hesitancy in using that money, 
would you? It would be yours and the boy’s just 
as much as if I had opened my pocketbook and handed 
it to you. Well, this amounts to the same thing. I 
pay in so much, monthly, for the risk, and whether 
I die next week or fifty years from now you get the 
five thousand.” 

“But Sam, it seems to me it would be much better 
to make that monthly payment a deposit in the bank. 
It would be accumulating interest, and would amount 
to five thousand long before fifty years, and you could 
have some benefit of it yourself.” 

“You talk as though you were sure I am going to 
live fifty years. You miss the very point of the mat- 
ter. If I join this lodge and should die after I had paid 


162 


ILaiz fHocton’s Snbestment 


only one assessment you would get the five thousand 
just the same.” 

“I know it is done, and considered legitimate, but 
I know that I should feel like a pauper to have some 
one give me five thousand dollars for what had cost 
you only a very few dollars. I couldn’t feel that it 
was honestly mine. With this farm for our own, baby 
and I would not suffer if — if you should be taken away 
from us. Please don’t do it, Sam.” 

“Of all the unreasonable, illogical creatures, com- 
mend me to a woman!” Sam ejaculated, impatiently. 
After a moment of silence he began again in a per- 
suasive voice, “There are other advantages for a man 
connected with the lodge, Lois. It helps a man in 
his business life and gives him a standing among men. 
He can always introduce himself in a strange city 
through his lodge. If he is ever in trouble the mem- 
bers of his lodge are bound, by oath, to stand by him 
and help him.” 

The thought of more lonely evenings was present 
with her, but deep in her consciousness, and scarcely 
acknowledged to herself, was the fear that these 
nights in town might bring temptations too strong 
for Sam to resist. The possible advantage to her she 
gave not a moment’s thought, but intuitively, with 
no arguments she dared use to support it, she knew 
that the lodge was a danger for Sam which she must 
prevent if possible. 

“That sounds very well,” she replied, thought- 
fully. “The idea of mutual helpfulness is a beautiful 
one. It is the Christian ideal. I have no doubt 


g>umtf)tne anb g>fm&oto 


163 


that the lodges do many an act of real Christian 
helpfulness. The oath binds you, I suppose, only to 
help such men as are members of your lodge/’ she 
said in a questioning tone. 

Sam nodded. He was a little afraid to make ad- 
missions since Lois didn’t seem to take kindly to the 
lodge idea. 

“Doesn’t it seem to you that would tend to culti- 
vate selfishness?” 

“I don’t see why it would. There’s nothing to pro- 
hibit a man from helping as many men as he wants to 
outside of the lodge.” 

Lois realized that her argument was weak, but she 
must make another effort. “It would mean more 
lonely evenings for me, Sam. Of course your lodge 
doesn’t admit women and I never could go with you ; 
besides, you would have secrets from me, Sam. I’ve 
always believed that in the true union of husband 
and wife there were no secrets between them. There 
never has been, so far, between us, has there, Sam?” 
Lois asked in a wistful tone. 

Sam thought of the wheat money, and the lie he had 
told her about it. There were several other little 
things that he didn’t care to have her know. “Oh, 
nothing that most women would make any fuss about,” 
he had told himself when they occurred, “but Lois is 
peculiar in some respects.” He evaded the question 
by laughing at her as he said, “So that is the trouble, 
is it? You’re afraid I’ll have secrets from you. How 
a woman does love secrets ! ” He ended the discussion 


164 


lioi# Motion’# 3nbe£tment 


by saying, “Well, it’s chore-time,” as he put on his 
hat and left the room. 

As he passed into the barnyard Ike Wilson hailed 
him from the road, and after a few remarks had been 
exchanged about the weather, he said, “Of course I 
may present your name for membership in the lodge, 
tomorrow night ?” 

“No, I haven’t quite decided about it,” Sam re- 
turned. 

Upon which Ike climbed down from his wagon, tied 
his horses to the gate-post, and came into the barn- 
yard. “Now see here, Sam,” he began, “what ob- 
jection can you possibly find to the lodge? It isn’t 
expensive. The initiation fee is only ten dollars. 
The dues are only two dollars per month, and that in- 
cludes insurance. It is the best possible organization 
for a man to join if he has any political ambitions. 
It’s fine in a social way. A man is only half a man if 
he doesn’t enjoy meeting other men in a social way now 
and then. You’ve cut out the saloon, and that’s all 
right, — I don’t indulge very often, myself, any more, — 
but you need some social life. We have a banquet 
every month, or so ; sometimes this is for the women, 
too, — and nearly always a lunch just before starting 
home, a cup of coffee and a sandwich, or something 
of that kind. The work’s fine too; you’d soon learn 
it, Sam ; you’re quicker than I am at that, and you’d 
be sure to go right up to ‘Most Noble High Chief’ as 
fast as you could be passed along from one office to 
another. You’d look fine in the regalia, too. Our 
lodge has the finest regalia in the county. Come, Sam ? 


gmttstfime anti IMjaboto 


165 


better sign up this application and let me hand it in 
tomorrow night; you’ll never regret it.” 

Happening to glance out of the pantry window Lois 
saw Ike hand Sam a piece of paper, saw Sam hesitate 
a moment and seem to ask some question to which 
Ike nodded his head emphatically ; then Sam took a 
pencil out of his pocket and wrote something very 
briefly, and handed the paper back to Ike. 

“I do hope Sam hasn’t been foolish enough to sign 
a note with that trifling Ike Wilson,” Lois said to her- 
self. She wouldn’t ask him, though. Somehow, 
lately, Sam seemed to resent her asking questions 
about things. She wouldn’t seem to be inquisitive 
about Sam’s business. There was a shadow of anxiety 
in her eyes, however, as she looked at the two men. 

About two weeks later, contrary to his usual custom 
on Saturdays, Sam waited till afternoon before start- 
ing to town. Lois noticed that he had on his best 
suit, which he did not usually wear just for a trip to 
town. She wondered at this, but made no remarks 
except to say, pleasantly, “How much nicer you look 
in your best suit ! I wish you could wear good clothes 
every day.” 

“Perhaps I shall be able to some day,” he replied, 
“and when I am you shall wear silks and satins every 
day,” and he gave her a playful squeeze as he kissed 
her good-by. Then he said, in an offhand way, “I 
am going to join the lodge tonight, Lois, and may not 
be home till late. Will you be afraid to stay alone? 
If I see Katie in town shall I ask her to come and stay 
all night with you?” 


166 


ULoii JHorton’S Snbestment 


In spite of his caress it seemed to her that he had 
deliberately shut the door of his heart against her. 
She said “no” to both questions. She went to the 
south window and watched him out of sight with the 
shadow deepening in her beautiful eyes. 


ICote 4J$lafee£ a ©ecteton 


167 


CHAPTER XIX. 

Hote iHlafee* a ©ecteton 

And now we must pass over the story of three years 
very briefly. They were marked by many disappoint- 
ments. During the first of the three an unusually 
wet and late spring hindered the work of planting corn, 
and the early frost of the succeeding fall caught the 
crop before it had matured. An epidemic of hog 
cholera carried off nearly all of Sam’s young shoats. 
He had hoped to pay off “that note” with the money 
derived from the sale of his hogs, and now it had to be 
renewed, and the thought of it still pursued him like 
a Nemesis. 

These material losses and disappointments had their 
effect on the mental and spiritual atmosphere of the 
home. Sam was often moody and irritable, and Lois 
had lost something of her bright hopefulness. Still 
both made efforts to be cheerful. If Sam seemed un- 
usually depressed Lois would say, “Cheer up, part- 
ner. Never mind if the balance is on the wrong side 
of the ledger this year; next year we’ll change all 
that.” 

Sam would answer, “Anyhow we are all in good 
health and the boy is growing like a weed. He’ll 
soon be big enough to plow corn for daddy, won’t you, 
you young rascal?” Then would follow a romp with 


168 


%oii jttorton’s Knbestmcnt 


young Ralph which would banish dull care for the 
time. 

Lois still had her times of anxiety concerning Sam’s 
intimacy with Ike Wilson. The two men often went 
together to lodge; Ike, who lived farther from town, 
stopping for Sam on his way. She ventured once to 
say : “Sam, I don’t like to have you so much in Ike 
Wilson’s company. You know his reputation is not 
the best, and the old adage still holds good, ‘A man 
is known by the company he keeps.’ ” 

“Nonsense, Lois; you can’t keep me wrapped up 
in cotton wool so that I cannot be touched by anything 
bad. A man, if he is a man, can meet and mingle 
with all sorts — has to, in fact — and still retain his 
own uprightness. It is a means of strengthening his 
own character to rub up against men of different 
standards and still hold to his own. Besides, Ike 
isn’t the reprobate you seem to think he is; he’s got 
to be quite a decent fellow. They think very highly 
of him in lodge circles. And what is the use of my 
taking a horse to stand out in the cold when I can just 
as well ride in and back with Ike?” 

The horse argument was good, she had to admit. 
At least she could not give any reason for not liking 
it, except that she did not want Sam in Ike’s company, 
and she had already said that. If she felt doubtful 
about the standards of “lodge circles” she couldn’t 
say so, as she had no means of knowing just what they 
were. And yes, of course, if a man could rub up against 
men of other standards and “still hold to his own,” 
it certainly was a means of strengthening him. Oh, 


Hote Jttafees a ©etteton 


169 


how she did hope — yes, and pray — that Sam would 
“hold.” 

The nights when Sam went to lodge were times of 
dread to her. She would not ask Katie to stay with 
her. Katie, while accepting Sam as a brother, had, 
to Lois’ keen eyes, still failed to fully approve Lois’ 
choice of him as a husband. Lois knew, although 
they had never discussed the subject, that Katie did 
not approve of Sam’s leaving her and little Ralph 
alone, to go to lodge in the company of Ike Wilson. 
She had several times offered to come and stay over- 
night with her when lodge night came around, but 
Lois always said that while she would be glad to have 
Katie come, there was no especial reason why she 
should come on lodge night, as she was not at all 
afraid to stay alone. Nor was she afraid of robbers, 
or anything that might molest her, but they were long, 
lonesome evenings, and although she went to bed after 
the first few times, when Sam had been so angry with 
her for sitting up, it was only to lie awake, full of un- 
named anxiety, until his return, which was usually 
very late. Once during the second winter he had 
slipped in very stealthily in the wee small hours of the 
morning, and slept on the couch in the sitting-room 
the rest of the night. 

“It was rather late when I came in — we had sev- 
eral initiations last night — and I thought I wouldn’t 
wake you,” he remarked next morning. 

Not wake her! She had heard the rattle of the old 
buggy wheels half a mile away, had heard them stop, 
heard the men’s voices as Sam said “Good night ’’and 


170 


TLoia fHorton’s: Snbefitment 


Ike answered with a laugh, “Good morning.” She had 
heard Sam’s step — it didn’t sound quite natural, but 
probably he was stiff with the cold, it was such a cold 
night. She was glad she had got up when she first 
heard them coming, to shake down the coals in the 
baseburner ; there was a nice warm fire when he came 
in, but she wouldn’t annoy him by letting him know 
she was awake. 

And once he had not come home at all. That was 
a night of agonizing suspense. Again and again she 
had pressed little Ralph to her bosom and kissed him 
passionately, while her eyes, full of fear, stared into 
the blackness of the night and the muscles tightened 
around her heart. 

Soon after daylight they drove up. “I’m awfully 
sorry, Lois. You worried about me, didn’t you? But 
I couldn’t get here any sooner. Ike’s horse was taken 
sick soon after we got to town. We came just as soon 
as he was able to travel.” 

Oh, what a weight was lifted from her heart! “And 
have you been up all night doctoring him? How 
tired you must be! I’ll soon have breakfast ready 
and then you must lie down and take a good nap.” 

He did so. With a deep flush on his face he slept 
heavily till long after noon. As Lois looked at him 
from time to time, fear again looked through her eyes, 
and again she folded little Ralph to her hungry heart 
with passionate caresses. 

“What for ’oo ’queeze me so tight, Mamma?” 
little Ralph asked her, looking at her with question- 
ing eyes. 


ILoii jHakeg a Jiecision 


171 


And a few minutes later he asked, “What for my 
Papa s’eep all day?” 

“Oh me! Oh me! Can even a baby feel that all 
is not right? God help us,” she prayed. 

At a neighborhood quilting the next day, Ike’s wife, 
a woman Lois had never liked, took advantage of a 
moment when she and Lois were alone in the room, 
to say, with a silly grin on her face, “Our men came 
home rather early in the morning the other night.” 

Lois nodded. Then feeling that she must be civil, 
she asked, “How is the horse?” 

“Oh, the horse is all right. I’ve heard stories of 
sick horses before,” and she laughed in an unpleasant 
way. 

Again Lois felt those iron muscles grip her heart, 
but she said calmly, “Would you mark this off in 
squares or diamonds ? ” 

Sam’s farming operations the next year were marked 
by a noticeable lack of enthusiasm and industry. The 
season opened favorably, but one delay after another 
hindered the work’s being done when it should have 
been. The wheat got too ripe before he “got around” 
to cut it. A good deal of it shook out in handling 
and the result of the threshing indicated a poor yield. 
The corn got too large before he finished the second 
plowing, and his field was weedy as a consequence. 
Much of the hay was spoiled for lack of proper care 
and attention to its curing. 

As the fall elections came on, Sam, who was a 
candidate for a township office, spent considerable 


172 


Hoist jUorton’s! Snbesrtment 


time in “canvassing”; then, to get the corn picked 
before snow fell, he had to hire more help than usual. 

Lois urged and remonstrated to no effect, and was 
finally told sharply, to “mind her own business.” 
This sent her into her room to have a good cry, an 
indulgence she did not often allow herself. 

Sam’s “business” seemed to require his presence 
in town much more frequently than usual, and it was 
often late at night when he returned. Once he had 
stayed all night — did not get home until the evening 
of the following day; then he told a story of being 
drawn on a jury. Lois was so anxious to be convinced 
that he was “all right” that she would not have at- 
tempted to prove the truth of the story by asking 
any of the neighbors about the lawsuit, as she might 
easily have done. Neither did she ask Sam for any 
of the details of the case, but the brutal truth came 
home to her through Jim Prouty’s little girl, who 
was in her Sunday-school class. 

“Is Mr. Sam better?” the child asked. 

“ Better? Why, he hasn’t been sick,” Lois answered. 

“Yes, he was sick at our house yesterday. Him 
and my papa was bofe sick, but my papa is all well 
again. Is Mr. Sam well, too?” the child persisted. 

“Yes, he is quite well, dear.” 

That Sunday afternoon Lois had a talk with Sam. 
She begged and pleaded, while the tears ran down her 
wan face, that Sam would tell her why he could not 
let drink alone. That he would tell her if there was 
anything she could do or say that she had not already 


Hots iUlafees; a Berisrton 


173 


done or said, to make it easier for him — to help him 
in any way. 

And Sam, the coward, talked of his home not being 
so pleasant as it used to be, and the need a man who 
had to work hard and meet all sorts of hard knocks 
outside, had for a cheerful home, and a bright, jolly, 
loving wife. 

“Of course,” he admitted, “I’m a fool to drink, and 
I am going to stop. I really have no craving for 
stimulants; it’s just for the sociability of it that I 
take a glass now and then. Most men can do that 
without getting upset, but I’ve found out that I can’t, 
and I’m going to stop it altogether, Lois. You needn’t 
be afraid; I have will-power enough to stop when I 
want to, and I have made up my mind that I will. 
If you’ll just be your old gay, cheerful self, and not go 
around here looking as if you’d lost the last friend 
you had, it will be more encouragement for me to 
hurry home from town to the bosom of my own family.” 

Love still blinded her eyes, she did not fully realize 
the injustice of such a plea, and hope still lived within 
her heart ; so she answered, eagerly, “ Oh, I will, Sam. 
I’ll be the happiest woman in the world if you’ll just 
let drink alone.” 

But Sam did not let drink alone. He meant to — 
he told himself that for the sake of Lois and the boy 
he must. For a few weeks he avoided Ike and his 
other associates of like fiber; and once, when they 
cornered him and asked him to “have something” 
with them, he answered roughly that he’d buy his 
own liquor when he wanted any. 


174 


Hot* jfflorton , £ Snbesrtment 


One Saturday, near the close of the third year, Sam 
went on some business to the county-seat town, sev- 
eral miles farther from home than Dicksburg. His 
business was with one of the county officers, a poli- 
tician who was “beginning to look after his fences’ * 
and “fixing things solid” for his reelection. He had 
met Sam the fall before, and [knew him for a local 
office-holder in his own township. After their busi- 
ness was dispatched this man invited Sam into his 
private office to meet another prominent county 
official, saying, “You can give us some information 
which we need about the strength of the party in your 
township.” 

Sam was flattered with this recognition of his posi- 
tion as a leading man in his party. 

Cigars were brought out, and when the air was blue 
with smoke and their throats dry, a bottle of beer 
was brought in. Poor Sam began to temporize, as 
usual. He really did not want to drink, he would 
much rather not, but — to refuse would seem dis- 
courteous to these influential friends. Oh, well, he 
could drink just one glass — he would stop with one. 
He’d just prove to himself that he could. So he drank 
the one glass, resolutely refused another, and took his 
departure. 

But oh, the strength and insistence of the appetite 
that one small glass of beer had awakened! Like a 
starving child pleading for bread it begged, and 
pleaded and made such a clamor that the poor brain 
could scarcely hear the voice of the will saying, “No, 
you must not.” The end of the contest came when 


Hote jWafees; a ©ecteion 


175 


Sam stopped at one of the convenient saloons, pur- 
chased a bottle, and as he went on his homeward way, 
drank, and drank, and drank again. 

Late that evening, Lois, who was anxiously wait- 
ing, and watching, and listening, heard the wagon stop 
at the gate. As it did not soon sound again coming 
into the barnyard as she expected, she went out to the 
gate. There was the team and wagon, but where was 
Sam ? She climbed quickly in and felt around. O God ! 
There he was, lying on the floor of the wagon. Dead? 
No, his face was warm. Then she knew. A great 
wave of disgust and anger swept over her. 

As she cared for the faithful, tired horses her angry 
thoughts were busy with the problem of Sam’s dis- 
posal for the night. “He is perfectly helpless. I could 
go to Ike Wilson’s and get him to come over and help 
Sam into the house, but what if Ralphie should wake 
while I am gone? No, there is no responsibility on 
me to do any such thing. I will simply leave him in 
the wagon — like the beast he is. It is not cold enough 
to hurt him any. It may be that to come to himself 
in such a place, in the middle of the night, will show 
him how low he has fallen and shame him into reforma- 
tion.” 

She rolled up a horse-blanket and put it under his 
head, then pulled the robe off the spring-seat to cover 
him with. As she did do a bottle fell out. Her wrath 
blazed up anew. She snatched it up and with a 
savage look of hate on her face smashed it on the wheel. 
“This has got to stop, or — ” She shut her teeth 
tightly, and left the sentence unfinished. 


176 


Hote ifflortonte Snbestfment 


In the house, after assuring herself that little Ralph 
was still peacefully sleeping, she took up the problem 
which faced her. 

“I will endure it no longer! To be so humiliated 
and disgraced is intolerable. The wife of a common 
drunkard! My bonnie boy the child of a drunkard! 
He shall never know it. I will take him and go away ; 
away off some place where no one can ever point the 
finger of scorn at him and call him a ‘drunkard’s 
child.’ ” 

She flew into the bedroom again, and kissed and 
cuddled him, crying, “Oh, my poor baby! My dar- 
ling little Ralphie! You little cherub! Can it be 
possible that you are of the same blood as that travesty 
of a man out there in the wagon?” Then, as if she 
must not even think such thoughts of his father in his 
presence, for fear he would know, she started for the 
kitchen again. As she passed through the sitting- 
room her eyes caught the pictured face of Sam’s 
mother. Instantly she stopped. It seemed to her 
that the eyes of the picture rested on her in reproach. 

“He was once your baby , wasn’t he?” she whispered, 
with an awe-struck look on her face. Then in a flash 
came the memory of her dream, and the voice that 
said, “I perceive that you measure your life by the 
rule that is golden.” Then a thought that took her 
breath in a great gasp : “ Suppose Ralphie should 

some day be in the condition of this mother’s boy out 
there in the darkness ? ” 

She snatched a shawl from its hook and ran breath- 
lessly out to the wagon. She felt of Sam’s face and 


Hote ifffla fees; a ©ecteton 


177 


hands, pulled the blanket up over him, and sat there 
by him for twenty minutes or more, praying, and listen- 
ing often for a child’s call; then, again covering him 
carefully, she went into the house to assure herself 
that Ralphie was all right. 

All night long she vibrated between the house and 
the wagon, once or twice carrying out more blankets 
to cover Sam. As the hours passed her moods changed. 
Sometimes she flung herself on the couch and aban- 
doned herself to weeping. Great sobs shook her body, 
and it seemed as though her very heartstrings were 
being torn loose. Anon she would pace the kitchen 
like an angry goddess, pale with indignation, or sit 
with head buried in her hands, lost in gloomy thought. 
But always she came back to the memory of that night 
when, looking up to the bright star in the southern 
sky, she had whispered “He is going to be my boy 
too, now.” 

Rousing herself from one of these abstractions, again 
she passionately kissed the sleeping boy, and, lifting 
her face heavenward, prayed that the angel of sleep 
might still hover over him ; then she stood before the 
picture of Sam’s mother again, “She has a face like 
the Mater Dolorosa, only she isn’t looking upward. 
Her sorrowful eyes seem to say that it is for me, too, 
she grieves.” And again her dream came to mind. 
She saw again the long, dusty road, and felt the weari- 
ness of her journey and the weight of her burden. 
“I am not a believer in dreams,” she said, “but this 
is most extraordinary. Can it be that it was a vision 
of our journey through life — Sam’s and mineP^O 


178 


Hots; jJHortou’s; Snbesrtment 


God, the burden is almost more than I can bear.” 
After a moment of thought she said, “But I must 
not forget that poor Sam has a heavy one, too.” 
Slowly she recalled the other incidents of the strange 
dream, the man in the phaeton, and his offer — noth- 
ing like that had ever happened to her. “In my 
dream Sam had lost his burden and I was carrying 
both, but then, the vision did not show me the end 
of the journey. Dear God, we are on a journey, and 
the burdens are so heavy! but I will trust you to bring 
us safely to the end.” 

With the first faint streaks of dawn Sam came slink- 
ing into the house like a whipped cur. Lois faced 
him without a word, but with a pale, accusing counte- 
nance. He fell on his knees before her, lifted the hem 
of her gown and kissed it. With a great wave of pity 
she stooped, and gathering his head in her arms she 
sobbed, “Oh, my poor boy, my poor, poor boy!” 

Presently saying, “Come, Sam,” she led the way 
into the bathroom, filled the bath-tub with warm 
water from a wash-boiler on the stove, brought him a 
bath-robe, then opened the bed ready for him. Later 
she brought him toast and coffee, and waited on him 
like a mother on a sick child until his nerves were 
steady and his strength recovered. Then she sat 
down beside him, and said, “ Sam, we are going to Kan- 
sas. This state is so cursed with saloons that there 
is no chance for a man with your inheritance to escape 
them and their devotees. In Kansas the saloon is an 
outlaw. In a saloonless town you can be a man. 
How soon do you think we can go? ” 


Hots JWafeetf a JBecfeiou 


179 


“Oh, Lois, darling, I wish we could, but ” 

“Sam, we are going” she interrupted. “We will 
have a sale of the stock and other things ; we will rent 
the farm, and in Kansas we will take a ‘claim.’ ” 

“But you don’t know about some of my debts. I’m 

afraid we wouldn’t have money enough to live on ” 

“Then we’ll sell the farm. Sam, Ralph and I are 
going to Kansas within one month from today. I am 
going to bring up my boy in a state that does not 
traffic in the weaknesses of her men, nor sell the bodies 
and souls of her children for gold.” 


ISO 


ILoiss JHorton’ji inbestment 


CHAPTER XX 

a Jftefif) beginning 

The Fast Express which had been rushing along 
through the darkness of the night, up hill and down, 
noisily rumbling over bridges and going carefully 
around curves, had reached the long levels in western 
Kansas as dawn overtook it, and was skimming along 
the shining track that stretched out in the distance 
so far that the two rails seemed to merge into one. 
The sun was just lifting himself above the rim of the 
world and sending his long lances of light across the 
limitless expanse of gray-green plain as a curtain was 
raised in one of the sections of the Tourist Sleeper. 

It was the eager eyes of Lois Morton Smith that 
looked out across the wide levels. For many min- 
utes she gazed in silence, a wondering awe deepening 
the gravity on her thoughtful face. 

“It is like a fresh, clean, white page that the Nation 
has just turned over,” she said under her breath. “It 
seems as though men would be afraid to do anything 
low or mean on these open tablelands — they would 
realize so plainly ‘Thou, God, seest me.’ ” 

At breakfast in the diner, Sam, who also seemed 
to be awed by the plains, said, “Did you see the morn- 
ing come?” 

Lois thought from his tone that his words held more 
meaning than appeared on the surface. She answered 


a Jftesfj beginning 


181 


with a smile, “Yes, dear, I saw the morning coming 
up over the horizon, and it was beautiful and full of 
promise.” 

Sam pressed her hand. “We’ll soon be home now,” 
he said. 

Little Ralph had been looking out of the window with 
round, wondering eyes. He now turned to his mother 
and said, “Didn’t God get done making the world 
here?” 

Sam laughed, but Lois answered quickly, “God has 
been waiting for us to come and help him to make it 
beautiful. He wants us to plant some trees and flowers, 
and make a home. Ralphie, you shall plant a tree 
yourself, and some flowers, to help God make his world 
beautiful. Won’t that be fine?” 

A look of rapture came into his face, he reached up 
his arms and gave his mother a hug without saying 
anything, then turned to the window again. 

The “homestead” that Sam had “filed on” was 
just like hundreds of others — one hundred and sixty 
acres of level prairie, covered with a thick carpet of 
buffalo-grass. Not a stick nor a stone, not a bush 
nor a tree, not even a clump of weeds on it ; nothing 
but the grayish green grass forming a mat two or 
three inches deep, with here and there a cactus blos- 
som set like a jewel in the green expanse. 

“Art and Nature both need considerable assistance 
to make a home here,” said Lois as they stood, a few 
days later, surveying their “claim.” 

“You’d think, at first glance, that Nature had pro- 
vided no material whatever for Art to use in the build- 


182 


ILoix Jfflorto n f & 3fnbe£tment 


ing,” replied Sam; “and at second glance, too, if 
you didn’t know about sod houses,” he added. 

It was an interesting process to watch — the build- 
ing of their sod house. First, men with sharp and shin- 
ing breaking-plows turned over the sod in long brown 
ribbons four or five inches in thickness and about 
fifteen inches wide, then others with sharp spades 
or knives cut these ribbons into two-foot lengths. 
They were so filled with the tough, fibrous roots of the 
grass that very little earth shook out. The foundation 
of the house was marked out with sticks and cords as 
for a brick wall, and these ribbons, or blocks as they 
were now, were lifted and laid, grass side down, one 
on top of another to form a wall. There were two 
rows, which made the wall about thirty inches thick — 
the partition walls were not so thick — and the joints 
were carefully broken just as in brick-laying. Door 
and window frames were inserted where wanted, and 
the mortarless masonry built around and above them 
until the wall was of sufficient height. Next a “plate” 
was put on top, spiked to the walls with long, sharp- 
pointed wooden pins, and the roof-timbers raised and 
shingles applied as in the usual way. At least this 
was the way the best ones were built. Many a poor 
“homesteader” who had no money to buy shingles, 
finished his roof with simply a covering of rough 
boards, these in turn covered with sod. But Sam 
was building a good sod house — not merely a “soddy.” 
An extra layer of building-paper was put between 
shingles and sheathing to insure warmth, and double 
windows and storm-door were added. The plaster 


8 jftesf) beginning 


183 


was applied right to the sod walls, lath being neces- 
sary only for the ceiling; and lastly a floor was laid. 
Many a “soddy” had neither plaster nor floor, but 
Sam wondered how the people who lived in such a 
shelter could call it home. 

The new house contained three rooms — living-room, 
kitchen, and a good-sized bedroom ; and it was all as 
neat and dainty inside as any house. Outside the 
brownish black walls blended with the grayish green 
of the surrounding prairie and the deep blue of the 
sky, and gave a not inartistic touch to the landscape. 
The other farm buildings were also of sod. 

Life seemed to begin anew for Lois and Sam, and 
was full of interest and novelty which they shared 
with each other as in the happy days of their begin- 
ning life together in the old home. Neither one worked 
so hard as formerly — there was so little, comparatively, 
that one had to do in this new country. 

“I hardly know how I shall put in my time,” Sam 
said one day. “I haven’t any ground that will do 
for wheat. I can raise some sod-corn on the sod that 
I break this spring, but it will need no cultivating, 
nothing to do after it is planted till it is ready to pick, 
or cut up for fodder.” 

“You can go on breaking sod, can’t you? — so that 
next year you can put in a larger crop,” Lois replied. 

“No, they tell me that I shall have to do what 
breaking I want done during this month and next, 
for by July the sod is too dry to break.” 

“Well, there is the stock to care for.” 


184 


Hots; ifttorton'g Snbestment 


“Precious little care they will need. Simply to 
shut them up in the ‘corral’ at night and let them out 
in the morning. They’ll come home of themselves 
to get water, since they’ll not find any elsewhere. 
Nobody does any feeding here, except possibly for a 
few weeks in the winter when the grass may be cov- 
ered with snow.” 

“Grass! Why the grass doesn’t grow all the year 
round here, does it?” asked Lois in astonishment. 

“No,” laughed Sam; “it seems that it does all its 
growing during the spring months, and doesn’t get 
at it so very early, either. Then during July and Au- 
gust it goes through the curing process, and the rest 
of the year it’s hay. But no one cuts it — it’s too short 
for that — what’s the use to take the trouble to cut 
grass and make hay of it when it will make hay of 
itself right where it is if you let it alone?” 

“If one has a large herd of cattle or horses he would 
need a good many acres of land, wouldn’t he? For 
when the cattle had once eaten all the hay off they 
would need a new pasture till the grass could grow 
again. I am afraid we haven’t land enough, Sam.” 

“Oh, there’s plenty of free range. Lots of land 
that hasn’t been homesteaded yet. Belongs to ‘Uncle 
Sam,’ you know, and is as free as air to anyone who 
wants to use it. He’s a jolly old uncle, isn’t he? — 
to give a fellow a farm just for living on it, and the 
use of half a township so long as nobody else wants 
it. Of course people will come in and take up some 
of it, but there’ll be plenty left for a good while to 
come.” 


8 Jftegf) ^Beginning 


185 


“Still, I wish we could make sure of a larger farm; 
we are going to need it in time, I see,” said Lois mus- 
ingly. 

“I could take up a ‘tree claim,’ and perhaps I’d 
better do so. The only conditions are that I shall 
plant and cultivate ten acres of trees. ‘Uncle Sam’ 
is anxious to have trees on these barren plains, you 
see.” 

“We must do our share to help him. Do take a 
‘tree claim,’ Sam,” urged Lois. “Ralphie and I will 
help you plant the tree seeds. Oh, it will be the most 
splendid embroidery I shall ever have an opportunity 
to do — to help embellish these plains with trees, — 
beautiful, graceful green trees.” Lois was beginning 
to hunger for a sight of the trees she loved so well. 

Sam filed on the “tree claim,” and felt very proud 
of his three-hundred-and-twenty-acre farm. 

They soon made the acquaintance of their neigh- 
bors. They called themselves neighbors, although the 
“claim” of the nearest was three miles away. How- 
ever, there were six windmills in sight from their 
door — evidences of neighbors, even if some were ten 
miles away, as the first improvement a man made 
on his “claim” was to put down a well and to put up 
a windmill. They were a friendly, genial company 
when they gathered at each other’s homes occasionally, 
all full of the buoyancy of hope and expectation of 
prosperity in their new homes. 

The spring passed quickly, its plenteous rains and 
warm sun stimulating the young corn until it began 
to remind them of the luxuriance of the corn-fields 


186 


Hote Jtlortonte Snbestfment 


‘‘back home.” These new Kansans all spoke of their 
former dwelling-places as “back home.” Sometimes 
they said “back East,” though the state so designated 
would have seemed to a New-Englander a far Western 
one. 

The rains ceased with the coming of the hot July 
days. During the day the leaves of the corn would 
roll up and look so thirsty for rain, but the cool nights 
would refresh it, although no dew was anywhere per- 
ceptible, and the morning would find it erect, again 
flinging to the prairie breeze its glistening green ban- 
ners. 

Then there came a day when the wind blew strongly 
from the south all day. The windmills whirred with 
ever-increasing speed, and the stream of water pour- 
ing into the tank soon filled that receptacle to over- 
flowing. The overflow watered the garden through 
little channels or ditches, so it was a good day for the 
garden ; but the increasing velocity of the wind made 
Sam fearful of the stability of the windmill, and he 
was obliged to throw it out of gear, after which it 
still turned slowly and aimlessly this way and that, 
but was not held broadside to the wind as before, and 
thus escaped its force. 

Nor did the wind “go down” with the coming of even- 
ing, as usual. All night long it swept the plains, rush- 
ing on, with very few hindrances to its progress, to 
the gateway of the winds in the far North. 

The morning found the wind still blowing. As the 
sun rose higher and higher in the eastern sky his 


a Jfrestf) beginning 


187 


beams seemed to heat it till it felt like a blast from 
an oven. 

“This will cook the corn, I’m afraid,” said Sam 
when, about the middle of the forenoon, he had opened 
the south door for an instant and staggered back 
hastily to shut out the scorching blast. “I have heard 
of ‘hot winds,’ but never dreamed of anything like 
this.” 

Sure enough, next morning the poor corn no longer 
unrolled its banners bravely; they were parched and 
dried till they crumbled at the slightest touch. A 
few days of rubbing against each other left a field of 
bare stalks with a few broken mid-ribs clinging to 
some of them! 

“It isn’t a corn country,” the men told each other. 
“Wheat is the crop we will have to depend on. That 
ripens too early for the hot winds to catch it. Well, 
the buffalo-grass is all right; it was already dry be- 
fore the hot wind came, and there is no danger of any 
kind of a wind blowing that away with such roots 
as it has. Anyhow, cattle and horses frequently go 
through the winter with no other feed than the grass — 
it’s wonderful how nutritious it is.” 

“I’m thinking I may have to get my old cow a set 
of false teeth if she has to pull at that tough stuff all 
winter,” said the wag of the neighborhood. So they 
joked about their misfortunes, and cheered each other 
in their disappointments. 

The winter was mild, with only a few storms, and 
not enough snow for sleighing at any time. Sam and 
Lois read a great deal. They didn’t go often to town. 


188 


Hots jfflorton’s Snbestment 


It was a long drive, and the horses were not in very 
good condition, although Sam could not bear to let 
them exist on buffalo-grass alone. He had bought 
some high-priced feed, and reduced his little emergency 
fund in the bank in a way he had not anticipated. 

Little Ralph was an endless source of interest and 
amusement. Sam played with him, made toys for 
him, and told him stories by the hour. He was learn- 
ing fast and was a very alert, observing little fellow. 
His original thinking brought forth many quaint 
sayings and his questions were endless, and sometimes 
unanswerable. Lois read to him and answered his 
questions patiently. One day she had been reading 
a story of a small boy. “And so,” she concluded, 
“because he worked hard and was a good boy God 
rewarded him.” She explained what “rewarded” 
meant, and then arose and went about her work. 
About ten minutes later, when she had forgotten all 
about the story, Ralph asked, “Mamma, is it hard 
work to plant corn?” 

“Yes, Ralph,” she answered absently. 

“Mamma, isn’t Papa a good man?” 

Sam looked at her quizzically. 

“Yes, Ralphie, I think Papa is a very good man.” 

“Then why didn’t God keep his old hot wind from 
burning up Papa’s corn?” 

But if Sam had no reward in material things for his 
year of labor, he nevertheless was rewarded in more 
ways than he, himself, realized. He had made many 
friends among the sturdy, intelligent pioneers of this 
new country, and was fast gaining a reputation as a 


a Jfresf) ^Beginning 


189 


steady, intelligent business man with many qualities 
of leadership. He had made his home, though a 
humble sod house lacking many of the conveniences 
of life in the East, a happy place for his wife and child. 
For Lois had recovered much of her old-time gaiety 
and charm. She really seemed almost a girl again 
in her enthusiastic enjoyment of the new life. 

And last, but not least, Sam had recovered that 
Divine thing, self-respect, without which no man’s 
life is worth anything to himself or his fellow-men. 


190 


Hofe Motion* & Subestfment 


CHAPTER XXI 

©oto ©rbtlle Came to Hit 

“Katie, you old darling Katie, how glad I am to see 
you ! ” and Lois embraced her with a radiant face. 

“You can’t be any gladder than I am to see you, 
Sister mine. It seems an age since I saw you. Ralphie, 
what a big, big boy you are getting to be! I used to 
kiss you when you were a little boy, but I’m afraid 
to kiss big boys,” and Katie’s mock shyness put 
Ralph’s real bashfulness to flight. He threw both 
arms about her neck and kissed her in the fashion 
he had of “loving” his mother — first on the forehead, 
then on each cheek, then with a “hold up your chin” 
he ducked his face under her chin and gave her one 
in the “tickly spot” of her neck. Katie was delighted. 
She swept him off his feet and into her lap, where he 
stayed, a willing prisoner, till supper was ready. 

Katie had come out to Kansas to “hold down a 
claim,” as so many enterprising young women were 
doing. Sam had secured one for her just across the 
section line from his own. Had built her sod house 
just across the road^— or what might be a road some 
day when there was need of it — from her sister’s home. 
Katie would be obliged to live in her own house, she 
must eat and sleep there, but she and Lois were look- 
ing forward to lots of visiting. 


2£oto ©rbtlle Came to Ute 


191 


At the dainty supper-table drawn up in front of the 
deep-embrasured window filled with blooming plants, 
with the kitchen table and cook-stove hidden by a 
gay Japanese screen, Katie retailed the news of home. 

“I am so glad to hear that Father’s financial pros- 
pects are brightening,” Lois said. “ Three thousand 
this year from the stock, did you say, Katie? I won- 
der what Grandma thinks of his ‘faculty’ now?” 

Katie laughed. “I made Grandma and the uncles, 
aunts and cousins a visit shortly before coming away. 
Uncle John said: ‘It seems as if Mother thinks none 
of us know how to feed and market stock; she is all 
the time telling me and Dick how Henry manages his 
hogs, and how Henry feeds his cattle, and how fine 
Henry’s horses look. And, say, has your mother got 
a breed of hens that lay two eggs a day ? A body would 
think they must, to hear some of the tall stories 
Mother tells about the number of eggs Mary markets.’ 
Of course he was jesting, but there was a strong flavor 
of jealousy in his pleasantries, or at least it seemed so 
to me. And Cousin Dora complained that she didn’t 
know what had ‘come over’ Grandma. ‘She always 
seemed to think my fancy work things were so nice, 
but when she came back from her last visit to your 
house she looked my room over critically and then 
said, “I wish you could see Katie’s and Sarah Ellen’s 
room, Dora; it isn’t filled up with such trash as this.” 
Trash, she said. Actually called my air-castles and 
fairy-baskets and things, trash! I comforted Dora 
by telling her that we had long ago gotten used to 
Grandma’s plain speaking.” 


192 


Hots; Motion*# 3nb estfment 


“Did the old lady say anything about ‘the world’s 
advancement’?” inquired Sam with a sly glance in 
Lois’ direction. 

“Yes,” laughed Katie, “Grandma told me to ask 
you, Lois, if you found buffalo-grass as good as blue- 
grass to dry your dishes on.” 

After the laugh at the memory of this childish prank 
of Lois’ had subsided, Katie said, “Grandma sent you 
a present, Lois. Guess what?” 

“Oh, a roll of ‘pieces’ for my patchwork, I suppose. 
I wonder if she has been making shirts for Grandpa 
lately?” 

This reference had to be explained to Sam. When 
the merriment had subsided somewhat, Katie said : 
“No, you’re ‘cold,’ as we used to say. She sent you 
a blue glass preserve dish. She explained that she 
bought it at the ‘ten-cent counter,’ and told me to 
tell you that she thought the sun wouldn’t fade it.” 

After another laugh at this, in which Lois joined 
as heartily as the others, Katie remarked sagely : “That 
prank of yours, Lois, was a blessing in disguise to 
Grandma. You know that her sense of humor is 
small, and life to her, has always been such a calcu- 
lating grind that a bit of nonsense is a real joy-bell 
in her memory. She laughs heartily over it yet, and 
tells it often ; but I noticed that when she told it she 
never forgot to add, ‘But Lois is the niftiest little 
housekeeper among my granddaughters.’ ” 

“Well, I certainly am surprised to know that 
Grandma has so good an opinion of my housekeep- 
ing, and gratified, as well. It has always been my 


5®oto (©tbille Came to Hie 


193 


ambition to become as nice a housekeeper as Grand- 
ma.” 

“Don’t flatter yourself that you are her favorite 
granddaughter, however; that distinction belongs to 
Sarah Ellen, her namesake. Since she took the first 
prizes at the county fair on her bread and cookies, 
and the second on her Double Irish Chain quilt, 
Grandma’s bragging is really somewhat embarrassing 
for Sarah Ellen.” 

“Now tell us all about the old neighbors,” Lois 
said, as they drew their chairs about the glow of the 
baseburner after supper ; and first Sam and then Lois 
would ask about this and that old friend or neighbor. 
Finally Sam said, “And how is Napoleon Bonaparte?” 
This nickname had clung tenaciously to Orville Jones, 
the would-be orator of the old “Literary.” 

“Oh, Orville is still a faithful attendant at the Valley 
‘Literary,’ and I hope will continue to be indefinitely,” 
Katie answered. 

“Is that stupid fellow still pestering you with his 
attentions?” demanded Lois. 

“Yes,” laughed Katie; “I think it was mainly Or- 
ville’s ‘attentions’ that drove me to Kansas. You 
never saw such a fellow! I have never allowed him 
to take me anywhere, have refused all his invitations, 
haven’t even let him walk home with me from ‘Liter- 
ary ’ — in fact, I never did allow him to escort me any- 
where except that one time, but the fellow still pre- 
sents himself at our house at least once a month on 
Sunday afternoon, and of course we can’t shut the 
door in his face. He doesn’t do or say anything silly, 


194 


Hote fWortonte Snbesrtment 


you know; he is just stupid, in a grave and rather 
dignified way, and simply will not take the hint that 
I do not care for his company.” 

A few days later, one Sunday morning, in reply to 
Lois’ greeting of, “Isn’t it a beautiful morning?” 
Katie replied, “Just glorious! I woke up this morn- 
ing with such a sense of freedom and relief, and in a 
minute realized what caused it.” 

“Why, what did cause it?” asked Lois in sur- 
prise. 

“The thought that there’s no danger of Orville 
Jones coming to see me today,” laughed Katie. 

“You poor child! Was it as bad as that?” 

A few weeks later Sam, just home from town, said, 
“Lois, who do you suppose has taken the claim ad- 
joining Katie’s?” 

“Not Orville Jones?” Lois asked, with a conviction 
in her heart, . notwithstanding, that it was he. 

“Yes, Orville Jones.” 

“Poor Katie!” said Lois. “Sam, can’t you get 
somebody to buy his relinquishment, or something?” 

“I’m afraid I can’t. Orville doesn’t seem to be a 
relinquisher. But we’ll help Katie to keep him at a 
distance. I’ll give the fellow a hint, myself, if it’s 
necessary.” 

The summer came and went. Dame Nature smiled 
on the trustful homesteaders and the wheat-fields 
yielded “as fine a crop of wheat as you could expect 
to raise anywhere,” the elated farmers declared. 
Other crops were good also. These evidences of pros- 


Soto ©rtolle Came to Hit 


195 


perity brought homesteaders in ever-increasing num- 
bers. A railroad was soon built through the county, 
and a new town laid out only two miles from Sam’s 
claim. The increase in the population enabled the 
county now to organize with officers of its own and 
start the machinery of county government. As a 
consequence, politics was rife. All the public-spir- 
ited men, and some who were moved by merely selfish 
motives, became greatly interested in the coming elec- 
tion. There was a responsibility felt by every voter, 
to do his part in selecting the best available men to 
administer the affairs of the new domain, that is sadly 
lacking in some older communities where the best men, 
by their indifference, have gradually lost their hold on 
the reins of government. And even if they do awaken 
to the fact that rascals are in control, are still too in- 
different to take the trouble to turn them out, as it is 
their privilege and duty to do. 

Sam was deeply interested, and Lois equally so. 
They discussed the needs of the county and the quali- 
fications of the available men for the various offices, 
Lois urging Sam to do his duty as a good citizen ; and 
when a more and more insistent demand that he should 
become a candidate for the office of Register of Deeds 
manifested itself, she agreed with him that it was his 
duty to do so. This necessitated attendance at con- 
ventions, and at various political meetings in the 
school-houses over the county. The nights were now 
growing cold, and coming from the heated room, after 
the speaking, into the frosty night air, Sam caught 
a very severe cold. Lois urged that he ought to stay 


196 


Hote iWortonte Snbesttment 


at home and not expose himself by further speaking. 
But the campaign was a hot one, Sam knew that his 
party would not excuse him merely on account of a 
cold, so he continued to go, although his cold steadily 
grew worse. There was only one more meeting now 
before election, and Sam’s voice was so husky that he 
could scarcely speak above a whisper. 

“I’m afraid I’ll have to flunk on this last one,” he 
said to the chairman of the party as they were about 
to start for the sod school-house in Paola precinct. 
“I’ll go, but I don’t believe I shall be able to speak.” 

“Say, Smith, I’ll fix you up a dose that’ll rout that 
cold in no time. Finest thing I ever got hold of for a 
cold. Just wait here till I go into the drug store. 
’T won’t take me five minutes.” 

Sam and the other two men waited. The chairman 
soon came back and handed Sam a bottle, saying, 
“Take a good stiff dose of this now, and another one 
before you get up to speak, and I’ll warrant your voice 
will be all right.” 

Sam took two or three swallows and put the bottle 
in his pocket. He realized that there was whisky in 
the concoction, but it was such a usual thing for med- 
icines of all kinds to contain alcohol that he did not 
give it a second thought. His voice cleared, and he 
made the best speech of the campaign, so his admiring 
friends told him. To prevent taking more cold he 
took another dose, and before reaching town had emp- 
tied the bottle. 

They were all in high spirits and sure of the victory 
at the polls the next day. When they got into town. 


Ji)oto CrbtUe Came to Ute 


197 


where Sam had left his horse, one of the men in the 
party, said, “Let’s go into the restaurant here and have 
an oyster stew before going home.” After the oyster 
stew the keeper of the restaurant whispered to the 
chairman, “Would your party like to have a good hot 
toddy?” 

“All right, Pete; if you’ve got anything else hot, 
bring it on,” he said with a laugh. 

The old craving, aroused by the “medicine,” could 
no more resist the smell of “hot toddy” than a man 
perishing of thirst could refuse water. Sam drank, 
and drank again, as one after another claimed the 
privilege of treating. 

Sam’s political friends, who were not so badly under 
the influence of the drinks they had been having, were 
embarrassed when they realized his condition. A 
consultation as to what was best to do with him, was 
held. 

“It will never do to have him around town in this 
condition tomorrow,” the chairman said; “it would 
lose us votes by the score.” 

“His horse and buggy are down here at the livery 
stable,” said one of the men. “We can take him down 
there and bribe Tom Denning to watch him till he 
sleeps off the effects. I’ll come around early tomor- 
row morning and manage somehow to get him out 
of town, if he isn’t sober by that time, which he prob- 
bly will be.” 

But when they reached the livery stable Orville 
Jones came forward from one of the stalls, where he 
had overheard the talk, and said: “I’m an old friend 


198 


Hots Jtlorton's Snbestment 


of Smith’s. I live near him. I’ve just been waiting 
here to ride with him, and I’ll take him home.” 

The men were glad to be relieved of further re- 
sponsibility. They helped Orville to get him into the 
buggy, and cautioned him not to let Sam come back 
to town tomorrow in that condition. 

Lois, who was waiting up for Sam, was startled to 
find Orville, instead of Sam, at the door, when she 
opened to his knock. 

“I just came to tell you not to expect Sam home 
tonight. He didn’t feel well when he got back to 
town, and as he has to be there early in the morning 
he said if I would come over and tell you, so that you 
wouldn’t feel uneasy, he would just stay in town to- 
night,” lied Orville glibly. 

“Why didn’t he write me a note?” asked Lois with 
a trace of suspicion in her voice. 

“On the street? In the dark? When he was all 
worn out with his speaking and half sick? Surely, 
Mrs. Smith, you wouldn’t expect ” 

“Oh, of course not. It’s all right, Orville; I’m glad 
he stayed. He’s been nearly sick for a week, and ought 
not to have gone tonight. Thank you very much for 
coming to tell me,” she added gratefully. 

“Oh, not at all. I’m glad to do anything I can for 
an old friend.” 

Orville kept Sam at his own house all night and till 
evening of the next day. Toward evening he left him 
there while he went into town to learn all that could 
be known, at that time, of the results of the election. 


©oto €>rbiUe Came to ILie 


199 


He brought the news of the day to Sam, and then said : 
“Now go home to your wife. I’ll never say a word 
about this.” 

“Orville, you’ve surely proved yourself a ‘friend in 
need.’ I’ll not forget your kindness, and you’ll never 
hear of my doing a thing like this again,” declared 
Sam. 


200 


Hotfi jHorton’s Snbestment 


CHAPTER XXII 

©rbtUe’s Jkltnqutebment 

Sam was elected, and assumed the duties of his office 
the following January. Being so near the town — only 
two miles distant — it was unnecessary for the family 
to move to town, and Lois did not wish to do so. Sam 
did his own chores night and morning, ate breakfast 
and supper at home, and continued to be a homesteader 
as well as a county officer. He hired a neighbor to 
put in his crops, and Orville Jones was always at his 
service for any emergencies. 

Orville still made efforts to ingratiate himself in 
Katie's favor, but Katie had become a great favorite 
among the young people of the town and neighbor- 
hood, and as they did not include Orville in their 
merrymakings she was saved the annoyance of having 
to refuse to go with him to these affairs. He often 
went to Sam’s on Sunday afternoons with the hope 
of seeing Katie, and she was often there. She always 
treated him kindly, but at his first attempt to play 
the lover on these occasions, she excused herself and 
she and Lois went across to Katie’s own house, or 
Sam came to her rescue and insisted on Orville’s going 
for a drive or a walk with him. Of course he could not 
call on Katie at her own house ; he told himself that 
would not be proper, as she lived alone. And since 
Katie could so easily escape him she was more gracious 


©rbiUc’si &elmqufefmient 


201 


to him than formerly; so poor Orville took courage 
and lived on the hope that in time he would win her. 

Orville was proving such a willing and helpful neigh- 
bor that Sam and Lois tried to repay him by such 
friendly attentions as an occasional invitation to din- 
ner or tea. At these functions Katie was always con- 
spicuously absent. There was one member of the 
family, however, who gave poor Orville whole-hearted 
allegiance and admiration. This was little Ralph. 
Orville would do anything Ralph wanted him to — 
allow himself to be made a horse, turn into a bear at 
the command of his tyrant, work for hours on some toy, 
and seldom came without bringing some plaything 
he had made for Ralph. In short, he was Ralph’s 
devoted slave. 

And he soon established himself Sam’s guardian. 
He seemed, despite his slow wits, to understand bet- 
ter the strength and power of the appetite Sam had 
inherited, and its danger for him, than Lois did, or 
even Sam himself. Lois was feeling so secure that 
she seldom gave a thought to the possibility of Sam’s 
falling again, and absolutely refused to entertain it 
when such a thought presented itself. She drew a 
curtain over the past, never referred to it in any way, 
and almost succeeded in blotting it out from her own 
memory. 

Sam was chagrined to find that after a year and a 
half of total abstinence his old enemy should again 
conquer him. And in this new environment, too, 
where no one knew his past, and where he was so suc- 
cessfully making a good record. It must not and 


£02 


Hote iflortonte Snbeatment 


should not happen again. He was exceedingly grate- 
ful to Orville for keeping it from Lois. Lois was so 
happy. He meant to keep her so, too. 

But in an hour when he least expected it tempta- 
tion overcame him again. Again Orville was able to 
hide him and keep his secret from Lois. It was im- 
possible to keep it from being known to several men 
in town, but men who are addicted to the habit of 
drink are chary about advertising the same failing 
in others. Then, too, their friend Pete, ostensibly 
keeping a restaurant, which was in reality a “joint,” 
must be protected in his unlawful business or their 
source of supply would be cut off. So the knowing 
ones kept mum. 

It is hard to explain to those who do not know the 
strength of hereditary appetite, and the weakness of 
will-power which accompanies it, how it came about 
that with all the warning of his miserable failures in 
the past, and with all his love for Lois and his boy, 
with his really noble ideals for his own life, and am- 
bitions to be a worthy citizen of his community, Sam 
yet yielded, at more and more frequent intervals, to 
the temptation to drink. 

Perhaps it is equally difficult for the reader, whose 
life this blighting, withering curse has never touched, 
to understand how a woman of ordinary intelligence 
could so long remain ignorant of the fact that her hus- 
band, whom she saw every day, except for his occasional 
absences from town for two or three days at a time 
on “business,” was becoming a slave to drink. But 
here the task is easier, for the deplorable reason that 


©rbUle’S &elmquts{nnent 


203 


all over this broad and beautiful land of ours other 
loving wives, also devoted mothers and trustful sis- 
ters and daughters, have been as easily deceived. The 
very need of a woman’s nature to idealize the man she 
loves, and her own eagerness to remain blind to his 
faults, makes it easier for the man to deceive her. 

So Sam lied to Lois, and Orville assisted him to de- 
ceive her as he would have shielded a little child from 
unpleasant sights and knowledge that would grieve 
it. And two more years wrote their record of good 
and ill in the Book of Life. 

About this time Katie was married. A young 
banker in the town had persuaded her to desert the 
claim. Lois and Sam heartily approved of her choice, 
and the wedding, which was a merry one, was at the 
home of her sister. Orville had been invited, but failed 
to come. Neither did they see anything of him for 
some time afterward. 

“Where’s Orville? I want my Orville to come,” 
Ralph kept saying. 

On the third day after the wedding Lois said to 
Ralph : “ Come, dear, we’ll go over to Orville’s house 
and see if he is sick, or anything is wrong with him. 
Papa says he saw him about, doing his chores as usual, 
so I really do not think he is sick ; but we’ll go and see 
him anyhow.” 

Orville evidently did not hear their approach, for 
they stood in the open door before he turned around 
from the abstracted contemplation of some object on 
the table before him. What it was Lois did not see 


204 


Hoist jfflorton'st Snbesttment 


clearly, as before he rose to greet them he deftly cov- 
ered it with an open newspaper. 

“We were getting anxious about you, Orville. You 
haven’t been over to see us for four days now. Have 
you been sick?” Lois asked kindly. 

“N-o, I’ve just been — been — busy,” he answered 
in a confused way. 

“Have you been making my windmill?” Ralph de- 
manded. “You said you would, you know.” 

“N-o, I haven’t made it yet, Ralph, but I will, I 
shorely will.” 

He seemed unusually solemn and depressed. 

“Are you homesick, Orville, after this long time 
away ? ” Lois asked. She shrewdly guessed that Katie’s 
marriage had something to do with his despondency, 
and felt very sorry for him. 

“My mother’s dead. I haven’t any home back 
there, you know. I have just been trying, for four 
days, to get used to the idy that I’ll never have none, 
anywheres — not what you could re’ly call home.” 

Lois understood. “I’m sorry, Orville,” she said 
gently. 

Just then the wind lifted the newspaper on the table 
and there was revealed the most pitiful lover’s keep- 
sakes that ever fed the hungry heart of Love. A 
discarded old grammar that had been Katie’s; Lois 
recognized it by a picture pasted on its back. Katie 
had put it there to cover up a pen-and-ink caricature 
of Orville that Lois had wickedly drawn to tease her ; 
a green glass button, with the shank gone, that Katie 


©rbtlle'a &elmqmstfjmeut 


205 


had once worn on her Sunday frock; and a scrap of 
pink-and-green merino that had been Katie’s best dress 
one winter. 

Lois’ glance rested on them for an instant only, then 
she turned her face to the window and began to say, 
“How thrifty your plants ” 

Orville’s slow, hopeless tones broke in with, “I 
know’d I ought to burn ’em, and I was just taking a 
last look — ” He gulped, and rising slowly and heavily, 
gathered up the precious mementoes and laid them back 
in the pasteboard box in which he evidently kept them. 
As he lifted the scrap of merino he held it a moment, 
then he said to Lois, “She wore a dress like this the 
night I went home with her from ‘Literary.’ ” 

Lois’ heart ached with pity. “Keep them if they 
are any comfort to you, Orville ; I’m sure she wouldn’t 
care,” she said kindly. 

“No, it’s best for me to burn ’em,” he answered. 

Ralph didn’t understand why Orville was going to 
burn up his playthings, but he felt keenly the trouble 
in Orville’s face and voice, and knew that his mother 
sympathized. He went over and put his hand on 
Orville’s knee, and looked up into his face with all 
the love of his boy’s heart shining in his eyes. “I’ll 
give you my Robinson Crusoe and my best ‘glassie’ 
if you’ll come over to my house tomorrow,” he said in 
comforting tones. 

“Thank you, Ralphie; I’ll come,” he said grate- 
fully. 

“We’ll expect you to dinner, Orville,” Lois said as 
ghe rose to go, 


.06 


ILoi# Motion'# Snbesrtment 


Ralph’s hand sought his mother’s as they walked 
silently homeward. Presently he exclaimed, “He’s 
burning them, Mamma. He is! I smell the smoke.” 

Lois went down on one knee while she drew the boy 
close and looked in his eyes. “Ralphie,” she said 
solemnly, “we”ll have this for our secret — just Or- 
ville and you and I. We’ll never tell anybody else, 
and you must never mention it to Orville again, never. 
That is the best way we can show our love for him. 
Will you remember, Ralphie?” 

“Yes, Mamma, ’course I can keep a secret. And I 
won’t forget.” 


Katie’s; inspiration 


207 


CHAPTER XXIII 

llatie'S inspiration 

On his tenth birthday Ralph came rushing into the 
house waving a letter above his head and shouting, 
“It’s for me! It’s mine! Read it quick, Mamma.” 

Lois’ melancholy face lighted up with a smile, as she 
said, “And you carried it all the way home from town, 
without opening it, to share the first reading with 
Mamma, did you, Ralphie boy?” 

“Sure. Here, I’ll open it and then you read it.” 

“Why, what’s this?” as a printed slip with some 
strong, bold figures and a few words in ink fell out. 
“Why, Ralph, it is a draft for fifty dollars! Who can 
be sending you so much money ? ” Lois said in great sur- 
prise. 

“Hurry, Mamma, and read.” 

Lois read : 

“Chicago, April 10th, 18 — . 

“ Dear Friend : I hope you will let me call you friend. I always 
think of you so because your father and mother were both my friends 
a long time ago. 

“I remembered this morning that you would have a birthday 
this week, and as I have no boys of my own to give birthday pres- 
ents to I thought I would please myself by sending you one. Then 
because you and I have not had an opportunity to become ac- 
quainted, and I do not know what you would like for a present, I 
have decided to send you this draft for fifty dollars. You see, I 
want you to have something that you want very much, and I could- 
n’t take the risk of buying you a bicycle when you might like a pony 


208 


ILoia iWotton’K Snbesttmcnt 


better, or a pony — which you may already have — when your boy’s 
heart was longing for a kodak. So please accept this draft from one 
who would like to know you, and use it in any way you please. 

“ Please give my kindest regards to your father and mother, and 
tell them that a man in Chicago often thinks pleasantly of the happy 
days spent with them in the fun and frolics of Happy Valley. 

“Very sincerely yours, 

Paul Stanton.” 

Ralph had listened with shining eyes. As Lois 
finished reading he gave her a bear-hug, and then de- 
manded eagerly, “Who is he, Mamma? Tell me all 
about him.” 

And Lois told him many incidents of their school 
life together, and talked of what a fine, manly boy 
Paul always was. She did not say all that she would 
have liked to in Paul’s praise, because of the memory 
of Sam’s old jealousy. 

“What shall you do with the money, Ralph?” she 
asked at last. 

“I don’t know, Mamma. I think I should like to 
take some time to think about it. Of course I don’t 
need a pony, because I have Dandy. And if I bought 
a kodak tomorrow I might wish I’d got a bicycle in- 
stead the next day.” 

“How would you like to put it in the bank — Uncle 
Herbert’s bank — and have a bank-book of your own, 
while you are trying to decide?” 

“That’s just what I’ll do. My! won’t I feel rich 
with money of my own in the bank and a bank-book 
with Ralph M. Smith on the cover?” 

“Did you see Papa in town, Ralph?” 


Satie's inspiration 


209 


“No, Mamma. I went to the court-house after 
school, but his office was closed. Then I went to the 
postoffice and got my letter, and hurried right home 
with it.” 

“Well, let’s go out and do the chores, then if he isn’t 
here by that time we’ll eat supper and not wait any 
longer for him.” 

At supper-time Lois tried to enter into Ralph’s 
elation and happiness, but her heart was heavy with 
dread and anxiety about Sam. Gradually the hate- 
ful knowledge of Sam’s lies and deceit had dawned on 
her unwilling perceptions. Her despondency because 
of it had weighed on her spirits until her health was 
beginning to suffer. She found it hard to forgive what 
she thought must be deliberate indulgences of his appe- 
tite, and the future looked dark indeed. Added to 
her grief and discouragement was a new fear also. 

At bedtime she said, “I wonder if Papa has been 
called out of town unexpectedly, and will not be home 
tonight?” 

“Mamma, I thought Papa’s business was only writ- 
ing in the court-house. Why does he have to go to 
other towns so often?” 

“Oh, merciful Father! Has it come at last — the 
time when my boy begins to question his father’s 
actions? What can I tell him?” After a moment 
she said : “He never tells me, Ralph ; so how can I tell 
you? When you are a man Papa will probably tell 
you things and you’ll know all about his business then, 
because you’ll be helping him.” 


210 


Hote Jflortonte Snbestfment 


“When I’m a man I’ll tell you if I have to be gone 
all night, so you won’t get supper ready and wait, and 
wait, and look so sorry.” 

“Papa doesn’t mean to make me sorry, Ralph,” 
she said. “Let us go to bed now, and in the morn- 
ing I’ll go to town with you and you may deposit 
your money. Won’t Aunt Katie be surprised when 
she hears about it? She knew Paul Stanton, too.” 

Ralph’s letter stirred old memories, but thoughts 
of the present intruded too insistently to allow her 
to lose herself in happy dreams. After a wakeful, 
unhappy night she went, with all the semblance of 
cheerfulness she could muster, to town and to the 
bank with Ralph. 

With great pride Ralph showed his letter to Uncle 
Herbert, ahd announced that he wanted to deposit 
fifty dollars. 

“Well, I’ll be switched!” was that gentleman’s 
somewhat inelegant way of expressing his surprise. 
Then to Lois he said : “ There must have been some 
sort of a telepathic current between Chicago and west- 
ern Kansas last night. Katie grew reminiscent, and 
told me stories of her girlhood in Happy Valley and 
the good times at spelling-schools, parties and so forth, 
and Paul Stanton seemed to be one of her heroes. I 
feel that I am quite well acquainted with the gentle- 
man. He’s sure a friend worth having for you, Ralph,” 
he added. 

As Lois and Ralph started out, Herbert Hadley said 
to Lois, “You’re going to spend the day with Katie, 
aren’t you?” 


Matte's? 3ht£|uration 


211 


“I am going in for a little visit, but I hardly think 
I can spend the whole day. The stock will need to be 
looked after at noon.” 

“Orville Jones will do that if he knows you are not 
there, won’t he?” 

“I think Orville is not at home. I did not see any 
smoke from his chimney this morning as I came by.” 

“No, that’s so. I saw him in town this morning. 
Well, I’ll hunt him up and ask him to look after things 
out there and you just stay with Katie for a good all- 
day visit.” 

Katie added her entreaties to those of her husband, 
and Lois stayed for the day. Katie’s reminiscences 
of the evening before had brought them to the dis- 
cussion of Lois’ and Sam’s affairs, and Katie had re- 
solved that she would take the first opportunity that 
offered to break over Lois’ reserve and say some things 
that Lois ought to hear. She therefore felt this morn- 
ing that Providence was favoring her plans. 

Katie chatted cheerfully while she bustled about, 
getting dinner. Herbert brought Ralph home with 
him, and the conversation naturally turned to the 
Chicago letter and its writer, whom Katie praised to 
Ralph even more eloquently than Lois had done. 
Lois wondered that neither Katie nor her husband 
asked anything about Sam. She had been expecting 
that they would and wondering what she could say, 
and keep within the bounds of truth, and yet not be- 
tray her suspicions. The situation was becoming more 
and more difficult for her. Now, when they asked 
her no questions and said nothing about inviting him 


212 


JLoti Motion's* Snbesttment 


to dinner, she began to conclude that he probably was 
out of town and that they knew it. 

After the dinner dishes were “done up,” the two 
sisters settled themselves for a heart-to-heart talk. 
Each had made up her mind to that effect, but it was 
hard for either to begin. A silence fell between them 
which was finally broken by Katie. 

“Lois,” she said suddenly, after studying her sis- 
ter’s face covertly while Lois was busy with some sew- 
ing, “Lois, did you know that Sam spent last night 
in the back room of Pete Johnson’s ‘joint’ ?” 

Lois started, but without looking up she answered, 
“No ; I thought he was at Orville’s, as usual.” 

“Oh, then she knows more than we have given her 
credit for ; this makes it easier,” was Katie’s thought. 
Aloud she said: “Orville stayed there with him. He 
is getting so that Orville can’t manage him. He just 
wouldn’t go home with Orville last night, and Orville 
wouldn’t leave him, so he stayed there with him. The 
devotion of that poor fellow is beyond comprehension. 
I don’t want to pain you, Lois dear, but I can’t bear 
to see you going around here looking like the ghost 
of your self, and know how you are suffering. Sam 
is losing all control of himself. And he’s killing you, 
Lois. I don’t believe in divorce any more than you 
do, for things that can be borne, but really Lois, I 
wish you’d consent to consider it.” 

“No, Katie, I can’t. If it was deliberate wrong- 
doing on his part it would be different, but it isn’t. 
It is simply and solely an appetite and a weakness of 
will-power that he was born with. I knew it when I 


ilatie’s! Snfipttatton 


213 


married him, but he was so sure that I could help him 
to overcome it that I thought so myself. You see 
I took the risk with my eyes open. When we failed 
back home I thought surely in Kansas, away from sa- 
loons, he could be strong. And you know, Katie, 
how well he did and how happy we all were till Pete 
Johnson sneaked in here with his 4 joint.’ Now, I don’t 
know what to do. I’ve done everything and said 
everything I could think of, to try to help him. I 
haven’t given up hope yet, though. If the officers 
of this town and county would only enforce the pro- 
hibitory law, he would be safe. He wants to stop, 
Katie. He’s dreadfully afraid Ralph will get to know 
about his drinking, and Katie, oh, Katie — ” Lois’ 
voice broke. “ I’m afraid — afraid — when Ralph gets 
to know. He’ll blame his father so! His young judg- 
ment will be so harsh! He is beginning to question 
some things that his father does, and sometimes I don’t 
know what to tell him.” 

“I know, Lois dear, and Ralph is bound to find it 
out pretty soon. You’ll think I’m a sort of ‘Job’s 
comforter’ sister, but there is another trouble that 
perhaps you don’t realize. Sam’s financial affairs are 
in awfully bad shape. Besides the mortgage on the 
farm, Herbert tells me that there are all sorts of notes 
and accounts. And Herbert says there isn’t the ghost 
of a show for Sam’s receiving the nomination again, 
and how he’ll ever pull through without that salary 
is a problem, Lois,” she said abruptly. “Was it your 
idea — the move to Kansas?” 

Lois nodded. 


214 


Hois; J$lorton'£ Snbesrtment 


“I thought so. It was a good move, too. Why 
not take hold of the helm again, yourself? I’ll tell 
you what : why not let the people elect you to the 
office of Register of Deeds, instead of Sam? I believe 
they’d do it. Then insist on Sam’s staying on the 
farm, and doing the farm work. It will be better for 
him, and for you all, I do believe. I tell you, Lois 
Columbia Morton, you’ll have to take hold of this 
financial problem with a strong hand if it’s ever 
straightened out.” 

“I’ll think about it,” Lois said slowly. “A public 
career for a woman, especially in the political world, 
is something I have always had a repugnance for. I 
fear I have been somewhat contemptuous of women 
in such positions. But, if it seems possible, and 
right, for me to do something of this kind, I will lay 
aside my prejudices. I will think it over, Katie.” 

“You certainly had an inspiration, Katie,” her hus- 
band said, when he came in a little while later, and 
she told him about her suggestion to Lois. “I’m pos- 
itive you could be elected,” he said to Lois. “Sev- 
eral counties in the state have given this office, and 
others, to women; and the record of such women 
office-holders is a fine one, too. There is a great deal 
of sympathy for you, Lois,” he went on, “among the 
business men here who know the state of affairs. 
Lots of genuine regret that so fine a man as Sam is 
making the failure he is, too.” 

“If they’d just put some of that sympathy into ac- 
tion, and clean up these ‘joints,’ I’d think more of 
the genuineness of it,” Katie said scornfully. “I 


flatted inspiration 


215 


think I’ll join the W. C. T. U. and see if I cannot do 
something to help in that line; they seem to be the 
only folks who are trying to do anything about it.” 

“The W. C. T. U. is an all-right organization,” 
Herbert replied. “No one has a more sincere admi- 
ration for Miss Frances Willard than I have, but, 
Katie, I wouldn’t like to have you belong to this 
Union here. You know it is made up of women of 
no social standing. Most of them are lacking in — 
well, polish, and some of them are decidedly queer.” 

“Aren’t they all women of good character?” 

“Oh, yes, yes, most of them are church members; 
very earnest and devoted to what they believe is 
right, but — well, you’d be out of your class, Katie. I 
wish you wouldn’t think of it.” 

“I think I may be out of my class now,” Katie an- 
swered, but she didn’t promise not to think of it. 

Herbert knew that Katie had a mind of her .own, 
and he believed that it might be as well for the pfcace of 
the family if it were given free exercise ; so he dropped 
the subject of discussion, and, turning to Lois, said : 
“ When you have thought the matter of your candi- 
dacy over, and talked it over with Sam, let me know 
if I can be of any help to you.” 


216 


Hote jHortonte Snbestmcnt 


CHAPTER XXIV 

“3ft 3fen’t Jfair” 

The voters of Prospect County gave Mrs. Lois 
Morton Smith an overwhelming majority for the 
office of Register of Deeds. Sam accepted the new 
order of things in a matter-of-fact way that deceived 
everybody but Lois. She knew that her entrance 
into the arena of business life humbled him and brought 
him to a realizing sense of the failure he was, as a 
protector of his home, as nothing else had done. 

“It isn’t because I want to do it, Sam,” she had 
said when she discussed the matter with him. She 
had made a list, so far as she was able, of his debts, 
and also of his assets, and this was on the table before 
them as they talked. 

“You admit that there is no chance of your keeping 
the office longer, and when your salary stops we shall 
have no income — nothing to meet our living expenses, 
except a little butter-and-egg money, until you can 
raise a crop. What shall we live on until that time?” 

“I don’t know. I expect you’ll have to take the 
office, Lois, but I’d rather lose my right hand than to 
come to the pass where I have to be supported by 
my wife.” 

“Sam, you musn’t let anybody say that of you. 
You must devote all your energies to raising the big- 
gest crop of wheat and the finest stock of anybody 


3ten't Jfatr” 


£17 


in the neighborhood. I am just helping you because 
the boy is old enough now so that I am not needed in 
the house so closely as I used to be.” She could not 
allow him to lose his self-respect entirely. She must 
help him to preserve the remnant of it. 

Strange as it may seem, the boy still knew nothing 
of his father’s drinking habits. Lois scrupulously 
guarded him from the knowledge, realizing that 
Ralph’s faith in his father was the strongest incentive 
to a sober life that Sam now had, and also knowing 
that such knowledge would blight the young life which 
was so rapidly developing toward the high ideal of 
manhood she was constantly holding before him. Or- 
ville was still her faithful ally, although when Sam 
was drinking the idea that Orville was his enemy 
seemed to take possession of his poor muddled brain, 
and he would not be persuaded by Orville as formerly. 

It was the June following Lois’ initiation into her 
office. She rose early these mornings, prepared break- 
fast, looked after all the little household tasks, and then 
she and Ralph went to town — he to school and she to 
her office. 

Sam was busy, working hard, and full of interest in 
the cultivation of his fields and the care of his stock. 
He took his dinners with Orville, whose long years of 
bachelorhood had made him an excellent cook. At 
supper-time the little family was together again. 
Except for occasional spells of moroseness, which Lois 
attributed to his lingering prejudice against her busi- 
ness life, and discouragement at his own failure in it, 
Sam seemed to be “making good.” Gradually the 


218 


Hots miorton’s Snbejitment 


shadow lifted. Lois grew plump and rosy with re- 
turning hopefulness, and Happiness seemed about to 
take up her abiding-place again in their home. 

Then the blow fell that Lois had been fearing, yet 
hoping and praying might be spared her boy. 

She had closed her office a little earlier than usual, 
thinking to drive past the school-house just as school 
should be dismissed, instead of waiting at the office, as 
her custom was, for Ralph to come before starting for 
home. As she turned the corner near the school- 
house she saw a group of boys seemingly very much 
excited, and heard loud, angry voices. 

“He did! I saw him do it.” 

“I tell you he didn’t, you cheat!” came the answer 
in Ralph’s clear, decisive tones. 

“Oh, oh! Who are you, to call names? If I had 
a father who was a common drunkard, like yours, 
I’d ” 

“You lie!” and a blow that staggered the other boy 
for an instant followed the words. He clenched his 
fists and made for Ralph shouting, “You drunkard’s 
pup! I’ll learn you to call your betters names!” But 
some of the other boys caught and held him, while 
others called, “Shame! Shame!” 

“Ralph, come here!” commanded Lois in ringing 
tones. 

He turned in surprise at the sound of his mother’s 
voice, but came at once, still flushed and defiant. 

“Did you hear what he said?” he demanded hotly. 

“Never mind. Get in at once.” 


“3Jt 3fen’t jfatr” 


219 


He jumped into the seat beside her, but turned, as 
Lois gave the horse a cut with the whip that started 
him on the run, and called back over his shoulder, 
“Just wait till tomorrow! I’ll pay you for that, Dick 
Tracy.” 

“Oh, hush, Ralph!” Lois’ voice was full of anguish. 

“But Mamma, you didn’t hear what he said. He 
called my ” 

“Yes, I did, Ralph. Don’t repeat it. What’s the 
difference what an angry boy says? Boys say a lot 
of things when they’re mad that they don’t mean. 
Did you go to the postoffice? 

“No. He said my Papa was ” 

“Oh, Ralphie, why will you pay any attention to 
such nonsen — Why not just forget such fool — Oh, 
my boy! Saying a thing never in the world made it 
so. Let’s not talk any more about it.” 

Ralph looked at her white, strained face in wonder, 
but said no more. 

After a few minutes he asked, “Aren’t we going to 
the postoffice for the mail?” 

“No, Ralph, we must hurry right home.” 

“As they neared the house Lois said earnestly, 
“Ralph, I want you not to say one word to Papa about 
what that boy said. Remember, now.” 

“All right, Mamma; I won’t,” he said. 

Ralph went about his chores in a mechanical, ab- 
stracted way. At supper he spoke only when he was 
addressed, and ate very little. Lois noticed, with a 
sinking heart, that he was observing his father very 


220 


Ho te fttorton’s Snbeartment 


closely. Sam also noticed the unusual behavior of 
the boy, and asked, “Aren’t you well, Ralph?” 

“Yes, Papa.” 

“Well, what’s the matter, then?” 

“Nothing, Papa. I was only thinking.” 

Sam looked at him curiously, but said nothing 
further. 

Lois diverted his attention from the boy by reciting 
some small gossip she had heard in town. 

After supper Sam went over to Orville’s. When 
Lois had finished her dishes and sat down, Ralph drew 
a stool to her feet and sat down in front of her. 

Mamma,” he said, looking up in her face. “Mam- 
ma, was what Dick Tracy said, true?” 

Oh, the anguish and heart-break a man lays up for 
his wife and children by his self-indulgence in drink! 
Lois knew that no evasion would do with those honest, 
searching eyes looking straight into her own. 

“Ralphie, dearest, Mamma hoped you might never 
know about it. I hope ” 

“Then it’s true! He is — he is — what Dick said! ” 

Such a stricken, piteous face! Lois gathered him 
to her heart with the instinctive impulse of motherhood 
to shield and protect, but knowing that even her 
abounding mother-love was impotent to shield him 
now from this blow to his pride and affection. 

“How could he? How could he do it? It isn’t 
fair! It isn’t fair! A boy has a right to a decent 
father and it isn’t fair to — to shame him ” 

“My poor, poor boy!” Lois cried as she gathered 
him to her breast and tried to smother his wild out- 


“It 3ten’t jfatc” 


221 


cries ; but he struggled free from the encircling arms, 
and sitting erect he cried defiantly, “It isn’t fair to 
you either, Mamma ! I know now what makes you 
look so sorry when he doesn’t come home nights. 
He’s a wicked, wicked man, and ” 

“Oh, don’t! Ralphie, dear! Don’t say such things! 
You don’t know ” 

“Yes, I do know! I know that my father is a bad, 
wicked man, and I hate him. He’s a coward and a 
sneak! Yes, and a liar, too! Telling you that he has 
to go away on business, and staggering around town 
drunk, and everybody knowing it but me! I won’t 
stand it! We’ll go away, Mamma, you and me. I 
won’t let you stay here with him any longer. We’ll 
go away off some place, you and me, Mamma. I can 
earn money somehow, and I’ll take care of you, Mam- 
ma. Oh, I hate him! I do, Mamma! He isn’t my 
Papa! I’ll never call him Papa again as long as I live! 
He’s disgraced us, Mamma ! And there I was wanting 
to fight Dick Tracy for telling me what I was — a 
drunkard’s boy! Oh, it isn’t fair.” 

He threw himself on the couch, and dry, hard sobs 
choked his utterance. 

Lois had tried in vain to stop this angry torrent of 
words. She was frightened at the white-hot anger in 
face and voice. He paid no attention to her re- 
proachful “Ralph! Ralph!” but impatiently shook 
himself free from her clinging arms, and with feet 
braced and head thrown back defiantly, poured out 
his wrath and disdain for the man who had brought 
all this trouble on them. 


222 


ILoix iffflorton'3 Snbestment 


“Is this my little Ralphie? Oh, God, no! This 
is the ‘man-child’ I brought into the world.” She 
gazed at him in amazement. When he came to that 
last, heart-breaking thought of himself as a drunkard’s 
son and buried his face on the couch in an abandon- 
ment of grief, she knew that when his grief had spent 
itself he would then listen to reason. So she sat by his 
side smoothing the tousled hair in an agony of com- 
passionate sorrow, and pondering how to soften his 
heart towards his father. 

“Ralph, dear,” she began very quietly, after he had 
grown calm, “sometimes there is born into the world 
a little baby with a defect of his body, so that he never 
is quite as strong as other babies, but he grows up and 
becomes a man. And perhaps he can cover up this 
weakness so that most people know nothing about 
it, and those who do know think that in time he will 
grow strong like other men. In every other respect 
he is like other men, with the same ambitions and de- 
sires. He wants a wife, and a home, and little chil- 
dren of his own. It wasn’t his fault that he was born 
with that weakness, and he tries to grow strong. 
There comes a time when he thinks he is as strong as 
any man. Then he asks a woman whom he loves to 
marry him. She knows about his weakness, but he 
tells her that he feels very strong now, and that he is 
sure he is never going to be weak any more. She is 
not so sure of it, but thinks she can help him to be 
strong, and so they are married. And after a while 
a little baby-boy comes to them and they both love 
him dearly. But the man finds, after a time, that his 


“3ft 3fen’t jfatr” 


223 


old weakness still troubles him. He feels very, very 
badly about it and tries to overcome it. . . . And 

after a while— when the baby-boy has grown to be a big 
boy, he learns about his father’s weakness. . . . 

Ralph, dear, how do you think that boy ought to feel 
about it?” 

She held her breath, and her heart seemed to stop 
beating while she waited for his answer. 

“He ought to feel sorry, of course,” he admitted. 
“But Mamma, how is that like my father? He is a 
big, strong man.” 

“Ralph, don’t you remember telling me yesterday 
about that King boy at school who was always letting 
some other boy get him into trouble because, you said, 
he is ‘so easy’? You meant he did not have much 
will-power. Tell me, Ralph, what do you think makes 
the difference between the King boy and you, for in- 
stance? You can say ‘no,’ and stick to it, and he 
can’t.” 

“Why, I think boys are different because they’ve 
always been that way — were born so, I suppose, and 
fathers and mothers help a boy a lot, but I think the 
boy himself has a lot to do with it, too.” 

“Ralph, son, that’s the trouble with Papa — he was 
born with a weak will. And, Ralph, his father never 
‘helped’ any, and his mother died when he was about 
your age. Ralph, dear, Papa has stopped drinking 
now, and intends never to do so again. You and I 
must help him all we can by making his home pleasant, 
and loving him just because he is Papa.” 


224 


JLote Jilorton'g Snbeattment 


Sam’s footsteps were heard approaching, and Ralph 
hastily disappeared into his own room. 

The next morning as Lois was about ready to start 
for town, Ralph said, in a hesitating, abashed way, 
“Mamma, I needn’t go to school today, need I?” 

She understood all the broken pride, the crushing 
shame that prompted the request. With a face work- 
ing with controlled grief, she said gently, “No, Ralph, 
you may stay at home today if you wish.” 

He made the same request the second and third 
mornings, and received the same answer, but on the 
fourth morning Lois hesitated a moment before she 
answered, “Don’t you think you could, Ralph?” 

“Oh, no, no, Mamma. Please let me stay at home. 
I feel as if I wanted to crawl away into some dark hole 
where nobody could ever see me again.” 

Lois’ heart almost broke with the pity of it. She 
put her arm about him and held him close. “You 
needn’t go any more this term if you don’t want to,” 
she said gently. “It’s only a week more, anyhow.” 
Then she planned some tasks that would give him em- 
ployment, and said ‘ Good-by ’ ; but her heart was hot 
and heavy with the injustice and cruelty of Ralph’s 
suffering. She was anxious about the boy also. As 
she drove past Orville’s place she called to him and he 
came out. 

“Orville,” she said, “I come to my good friend for 
help again in trouble ; ” and she told him briefly about 
the occurrence on the school playground. “Ralph 
is feeling the disgrace of it so keenly that I cannot 
insist on his facing those boys and girls, and, Or- 


3ten't Jfatr” 


225 


ville, I’m afraid to leave him alone. I can’t tell 
Sam ” 

“No, he mustn’t be left alone, pore little feller! 
I’ll go right over and stay with him till you get back, 
Mrs. Smith, or persuade him to come over here.” 

“Thank you, Orville. Thank you. I never can 
find words to thank you enough for what you have done 
for me and mine.” 

“I don’t want no thanks, Mrs. Smith. I’m glad 
I am of some use to somebody, and that there boy is 
the apple of my eyeball. I couldn’t eat the best 
turkey dinner ever cooked, knowin’ that he was feel- 
in’ bad. Pore little chap! I’ll go right over and 
hearten him up.” 

Sam had asked Ralph once or twice during the last 
few days why he was not at school. 

“I didn’t want to go, and Mamma said I needn’t,” 
Ralph had answered. 

When Sam asked Lois about it she said, “He is 
under a nervous strain, and I thought it was best to 
let him stay quietly at home.” 

Sam, however, was not satisfied. He felt that there 
was some mystery about it that both the boy and his 
mother were keeping from him, and he resented being 
left out. The boy seemed to avoid him, too. He 
brooded over it. “It seems that I am nobody, in this 
family. Lois needn’t think that she can ‘run’ every- 
thing. There’s got to be a line drawn somewhere, 
and right here is the place to draw it. She can hold 
office and manage business if she wants to, but the 
boy is mine as well as hers, and I am interested in his 


226 


Hote ifWortonte Snbestfment 


education. He’s getting too much for her to manage — 
women are too soft. He must be made to do what I 
think best — I guess I am still the head of this house. 
He ought to be in school. He shall go to school.” 

On the morning of the fourth day, after Lois had 
gone, he said to the boy, “Ralph, you have had a long' 
enough vacation. I have saddled your pony; now 
get your books and start for school.” 

“But Mamma said I needn’t go any more this 
term.” 

“You heard what I said.” He spoke sternly. “Get 
your books and go at once or you will be late.” 

“I can’t, Father.” 

“Can’t? Why not?” 

“ Please, Father, don’t ask me. I can’t tell you why.” 

“Unless you give me some good reason, you must 
go to school,” Sam said sternly. 

“Something happened that last day — Father, I 
can’t tell you. I promised Mamma not to.” 

“ Things have come to a pretty pass when a boy can’t 
tell his own father what happened to him,” Sam said 
angrily. “Now look here, boy, this nonsense has got 
to stop. Tell me, at once , what happened.” 

“Honestly, I can’t, Father.” 

“Ralph, I never have whipped you, but I certainly 
shall, and severely too, if you don’t tell me, imme- 
diately, what happened to you that last day at school.” 

The boy’s face was white with fear, but he remained 
silent. 

Sam reached for a small riding-whip which hung 
from a nail in the kitchen wall. As he did so a change 


“St San’t jfaiv” 


227 


came over the boy’s face. It was still pale, but the 
jaws set firmly, and a gleam came into the eyes. 

“Now! I shall wait just sixty seconds,” and Sam 
raised the whip threateningly. 

As the seconds ticked themselves off slowly and Sam 
realized that the boy meant to defy him, his face be- 
came purple with rage. 

“Tak6 that!” he shouted, “you little devil! and 
that ” 

But before the second blow fell a huge bulk hurled 
itself on him from the open doorway, snatched the 
whip from his hand and bore him backward against 
the wall, while a voice thundered, “Are you crazy , 
man? ” 

As he recognized Orville, Sam’s rage became fury. 
With a stream of oaths he brought his clenched fist 
down again and again on Orville’s head. Orville held 
him as in a vise while they struggled, Breathlessly 
Orville said, “Run — Ralph — pony — my — house.” 

The thoroughly frightened boy rushed out, threw 
himself on his pony and fled like the wind toward town. 
Before going far he met his mother, whose anxiety 
about him was bringing her back. 

The two men struggled back and forth, overturning 
chairs and smashing crockery, — Sam, blindly furious 
with his passion, bent on doing harm to Orville, and 
Orville knowing that he must hold Sam if possible till 
his fury had spent itself. The two were evenly matched 
in point of strength; neither had much skill. It 
was simply a struggle of brute force. Sam was the 
larger and heavier of the two, but Orville’s temperate 


228 


Eots Norton's 3fnbe£tment 


life had given him firmness of muscle that promised 
to be more than a match, in endurance, for Sam’s 
superior size, and it seemed that Sam must soon be 
exhausted. For many minutes they had remained 
locked in each other’s grasp, writhing and twisting, 
the perspiration streaming from every pore, and their 
breath coming in great gasps, when the sound of rapidly 
approaching wheels was heard. Orville, anxious about 
the boy, turned his head to look through the open door. 
At the same time he must have relaxed his hold un- 
consciously. At this instant Sam, giving a wrench 
and a lunge, succeeded in pushing Orville backward 
with such force that he fell heavily against the steel 
range. At the same instant Lois rushed in, wild with 
fright. 

Sam dropped in a huddled heap in a chair, and Or- 
ville lay motionless on the floor. 


Yarn's 23c£patt anb i&alpfj’g Bespetatton 229 


CHAPTER XXV 

Yarn’s Be^patt anb 3aalpf)’S Besperation 

When Lois found that Orville was not dead, but 
only stunned, she sent him home, with Ralph for 
driver. She was beside herself with horror, grief and 
anxiety, and had only time for a fervent 44 God bless 
you” to Orville and a few words of direction to Ralph. 
He had begged to be allowed to stay with Orville, and 
Lois had said, “Yes, I want you to stay all night with 
Orville.” Then she hurried back to Sam. 

Sam was so utterly exhausted that he lay like a log 
the rest of the day. The next morning the grim 
specter of Remorse made its abode with him. His 
grief and despair when he learned what it was his boy 
had refused to tell him brought him to the deepest 
depths of humiliation he had ever sounded. 

“It’s the cursed drink again that is responsible for 
my anger and mistreatment of my boy, and which 
nearly caused me to be a murderer.” 

“Why, Sam, I didn’t know that you ever touched 
it any more,” said Lois in astonishment. 

“Lois,” he groaned, with his head bowed between 
his hands, “I am too low and contemptible to live. 
I have fooled you into bringing me some of the stuff 
yourself.” 

“I!” ejaculated Lois in amazement. Then the 
thought came to her that Sam surely wasn’t in his 


230 ILoii jUlorton’S Snfaegtmcnt 


right mind, this trouble was unbalancing him, and she 
said soothingly, “Come and lie down a while, Sam; 
you are not well.” 

“I don’t wonder you think I’m crazy,” he replied, 
reading her thought; “and when I tell you what I 
have been doing you will give up all hope of me, as 
I have of myself,” he said in a despairing tone. 

“I shall never give up hope as long as you live, Sam,” 
she answered earnestly. 

He seemed to be struggling with himself for a time, 
then he said: “Lois, as often as I have yielded to 
temptation, and as low as I have fallen in my own 
estimation, as well as that of everybody else, I have 
never before lost the belief that I could control myself. 
Each time I have fallen I have firmly believed that I 
should never do it again. I don’t know how to make 
you understand the awful craving that takes possession 
of me at times, when I can’t think of anything but 
drink, drink, drink. This has come on me during 
the last three or four years with gradually increasing 
frequency. While I was going to town every day I 
could satisfy this thirst at Pete’s ‘joint,’ and only 
occasionally got intoxicated. But since I have been 
staying at home no one knows what a fight I have been 
having. I think Orville realized it better than any- 
one else. I can’t tell you what a help he has been to 
me. And to think that I almost killed him yester- 
day! Well, to go on with my miserable story — for 
I feel that I must make a clean breast of it — one day 
when the thirst was on me I came to the house, and 
without realizing what I was about, began searching 


Yarn’s JBe^patr anil J&alpfi’s; ©espeiatiott 231 


the pantry and cellar for something to satisfy the aw- 
ful craving. In the cellar I found a bottle of ‘ bitters *■ — 
the medicine Katie persuaded you to take one spring 
when you were feeling so unwell. I seized it as a 
drowning man would a straw — there was about half 
a bottleful — and drank it down before I drew a breath.” 

Light began to break in on Lois’ puzzled mind. 

“Yes,” he went on, “I see you know now what I 
meant. I complained of not feeling well, and asked 
you to bring me a ‘course of treatment’ of those ‘bit- 
ters.’ Lois, you didn’t know, as I did, that they were 
nearly all alcohol,” he said as he saw the look of hor- 
ror on her face. “Then I sent by Orville a few times, 
and bought it myself by the dozen, and — well, you 
see, I have been drinking this stuff steadily. I real- 
ized that it made me morose and ugly — oh, the very 
demons of hell were in it, Lois, for there was murder 
in my heart when I struggled with Orville yesterday. 
I shudder to think what might have happened if you 
had not come at that minute. Now you know the 
depth of my degradation. I cannot control the crav- 
ing for drink, I have ruined your life, and now my boy 
knows that his father is a drunkard. I don’t see any- 
thing left for me except to end my miserable existence 
as quickly as possible.” 

“Oh, hush, Sam! Don’t say such an awful thing! 
Don’t think it even. Your life is not your own; it 
belongs to your Maker. Sam, there is One who can 
help you. David, who knew, for he was a man like 
you who had yielded to temptation, testifies of Him. 
Listen to what he says,” and Lois reached for a worn 


232 


ILoi# Motion*# 3fnbe£tment 


little Bible on a table near, and opening it read : “He 
hath not dealt with us after our sins, nor rewarded 
us after our iniquities. For as the Heavens are high 
above the earth, so great is his loving kindness toward 
them that fear Him. As far as the east is from the 
west, so far hath He removed our transgressions from 
us. Like as a father pitieth his children, so the Lord 
pitieth them that fear Him. For he knoweth our 
frame; He remembereth that we are dust. . . . 

The loving kindness of Jehovah is from everlasting to 
everlasting.” 

“‘Like as a father pitieth his children’? Like I 
pity my boy, so that I am willing to die to save him 
from further shame and disgrace?” 

“Yes, Sam. ‘He gave his life a ransom for many.’ 
Accept his pardon and help. He will help you to 
overcome every temptation. Dear Sam, resolve now, 
with God’s help, to be an overcomer. His promises 
are not to those who have not sinned, but to all who 
overcome their temptations to sin.” She turned to the 
“overcoming chapters” in Revelation, and left him 
with the Bible in his hand open at these marked pas- 
sages, and went to look for Ralph. She had told him 
to come over this morning and let her know how 
Orville was. She was getting very anxious, not only 
to hear from Orville, but very anxious about Ralph 
himself. She wondered whether she had done her 
whole duty by the boy in letting him go from her with 
only a hurried embrace and a whispered word of sym- 
pathy. To be sure, Orville would be as tender of him 


Yarn’s ©eSpatr anti Ralph's Sktfpetation 233 


as a mother, almost, and he would be wise, too. And 
Sam had needed her, too. 

“Lois, isn’t Ralph coming home soon?” Sam asked 
as she came in. “I want to go down on my knees to 
our boy and make him believe, if I can, that his father 
is not a monster. Go after him, won’t you? I’ll 
hitch up for you. Tell him I can’t wait any longer 
to say how sorry I am.” 

“Where’s Ralph, Orville?” Lois asked a few min- 
utes later as she stood in the doorway looking anxiously 
around. 

“Hasn’t he come home, Mrs. Smith?” asked Orville 
in surprise. “He said ‘Good-by’ to me this morning 
about nine, and I supposed he was going home. I 
was a-layin’ down here on the cot and didn’t notice 
which way he went.” 

Lois sank into the nearest chair with an awful fear 
clutching at her heart. 

“Oh, Mrs. Smith, Ralph is all right. There could- 
n’t nothin’ happen to him nohow, between here and 
home, right in broad daylight.” 

“How did he take it, Orville? What did he say 
about his father?” 

“We didn’t talk about it much. He said, ‘He 
wanted me to go to school. My mother had told me 
I needn’t. Then he wanted me to tell him why, and 
I couldn’t. I’d promised Mamma not to, and I 
couldn’t, anyhow.’ He kept telling me, ‘Orville, you 
are the best man I know,’ and ‘Orville, when I am a 
man I want you to live with me,’ and things like that. 


234 


Hots jKorton's Snbestment 


He throwed his arms around my neck, like he used 
to do when he was a little kid, and, says he, ‘Orville, 
you won’t never forget your boy, will you ? ’ He did- 
n’t sleep much. I heered him tossin’ and tumblin’ 
about, and oncet I seen a light in his room, and I went 
in there, and he was figgerin’ on a piece of paper. I 
said, ‘Ralph, mannie, I wouldn’t git up in the night 
for no ’rithmetic lesson if I was you.’ He said, ‘All 
right, Orville,’ and blowed out his light and laid down 
agin.” 

“Orville,” said Lois excitedly, “Let us look for that 
piece of paper.” 

They did not have far to look. On the pillow, where 
he had fastened it with a pin, was the note. Lois 
snatched it up and read : 

“Dear Mamma: Don’t be scared, and don’t cry because I have 
to go away for a few years. When I’m a man I will come back and 
get you, or send for you sooner if I make lots of money. I am going 
to Chicago, and when I get ’stablished in business I’ll call on Mr. Paul 
Stanton. I would not like to go to him first, you know, because he 
might think I just came to him to have him take care of me, and you 
know a boy of my age can easily make his own way in the city. 
Lots of them do it. And you know I have plenty of money. 

Very truly, your son, 

Ralph Morton Smith. 

“P. S. — I’m sorry I can’t take you with me, but I s’pose you 
wouldn’t leave him. 

“P. S. again. — Mamma, I do love you awfully. You are the 
beautifullest Mamma in the whole world.” 

They telegraphed three separate trains, any of which 
he might have taken. No one had noticed a boy of 
twelve in knee-pants about the depot. 


Yarn's Despair anti &alpf)'s Desperation 235 


The cashier at the bank had cashed his check for the 
full amount of his deposit, without thinking it strange. 
He had been taken into Ralph’s confidence when the 
deposit had been made, in the friendly way of people 
in small towns. He knew that Ralph’s mother was 
teaching him business methods in this practical way. 
Ralph had come in alone several times before to make 
a small deposit, or draw a check. He knew, too, that 
the deposit was there only till Ralph should decide 
what to buy. He had asked the boy, jokingly, as he 
handed out the money, “Well, is it to be a bicycle 
or a gun?” but some one had claimed his attention 
just then, and he did not notice what the boy said, 
or whether he replied at all. 

The agent at the depot was very sure he had sold 
no ticket to Chicago to a twelve-year-old boy. The 
truth was, that Ralph had gone down a back street, 
to avoid meeting anyone, had reached the depot only 
just in time to swing himself on the last car, and had 
paid his fare on board. The conductor to whom he 
paid it had reached the end of the division before the 
telegram caught the train, and the new conductor 
thought the boy was the son of the elderly gentleman 
who occupied the same seat. He promptly replied, 
“No twelve-year-old boy traveling alone on the 
train.” 

A message was also sent to Paul Stanton, requesting 
him to have incoming Union Pacific trains number 
thirty, twenty-four and six watched for a twelve-year- 
old boy in gray suit, traveling alone. With no re- 
sult. 


236 


Hois jWorton's! Snbesitmcnt 


Later, Paul Stanton received the following letter : 

“Dear Friend: If you fail to find my boy, please advise me 
at once what further steps are best to take. Oh, Paul, I am nearly 
frantic with fear and anxiety. 

“Reluctant as I am to reveal family troubles, I feel, neverthe- 
less, that I must explain to you the cause of my boy’s leaving home. 
His father whipped him unjustly, and while he was still hot with 
resentment he took this step. 

“If he had only determined to come to you — but he left a note 
saying, ‘When I am ’stablished in business I shall call on Mr. Paul 
Stanton. I would not like to go to him first, you know, because he 
might think I just came to have him take care of me, and you know 
a boy of my age can easily make his way in the city. Lots of them 
do it. And you know I have plenty of money.’ 

“The money he has is the fifty you sent him. 

“Sam is overwhelmed with remorse, and joins me in beseeching 
you to advise us how best to find our poor boy. 

Your distracted friend, 

Lois Morton Smith.” 


Columbia’s! message 


237 


CHAPTER XXVI 

Columbia’s! message 

“Katie, can you come out and stay a few days 
with Lois?’’ Sam asked one day about two months 
later than the events related in the previous chapter. 

“Yes, certainly, if she needs me. Anything new 
developed, Sam?” 

“No, there is no news from the boy. Katie, I’m 
afraid — I greatly fear the strain is proving too great 
for Lois. She calls me ‘Uncle Sam’ lately, in the 
strangest way ! And she talks a great deal about ‘ our 
boys.’ When I corrected her once, saying, ‘You mean 
our boy, don’t you?’ she replied, ‘No, I was thinking 
of them all.’ ” 

“I’ve noticed that she seemed to be a little absent- 
minded of late, but with all her grief and anxiety 
about Ralph that isn’t strange,” Katie replied. 

Lois showed her delight at having Katie with her, 
in the quiet, subdued way that had grown to be her 
habitual manner, but she talked more, and seemed 
to take more interest in the news of the life about 
them than she had since Ralph went away. Sam 
congratulated himself on his wisdom in bringing Katie 
to stay with her. “She must not be left alone any 
more, poor girl. What she needs is some one with her 
to keep her mind from dwelling constantly on her 
anxieties about Ralph,” he said to Katie, 


238 


ILoi# Motion* ti Snbesrtment 


Sam devoted himself to her in a way that the most 
ardent unmarried lover seldom approaches. He 
seemed to be purged of all his selfishness. No 
thought of his own desires or his own comfort had 
any place in his mind. At times he was consumed 
with remorse, and earnestly prayed for forgiveness, 
and for strength and opportunity to make the coming 
years of his life a blessing to his loved ones instead of 
a curse as the past had been. For Sam had learned 
slowdy and bitterly the lesson that is so hard for men 
glorying in their bodily strength and proud of their 
intellectual force, to learn, that no man is sufficient 
for himself. He needs always, a stronger arm and 
a wiser intelligence to uphold and guide him along 
life’s rough journey. So, night and morning his pe- 
titions ascended, that the all-wise, gracious Father 
would restore their broken home, keep their boy from 
evil and harm, help Lois to bear her burden of grief, 
and give him another chance to play the man. 

In Katie’s efforts to keep Lois’ mind away from her 
sorrow she told of all the town activities, among them 
of plans for a mass-meeting arranged by the W. C. T. U., 
of which organization she was now a member, in 
which all the churches were to unite. There were to 
be short speeches and addresses by several men and 
women of the community, and special music for the 
occasion. Katie was doubtful of the wisdom of this 
before she had finished speaking, fearful that it might 
recall to Lois her worries and griefs of the past as well 
as the present. But Lois asked several questions 
without emotion, seemed very much interested, and 


Columbia'* jWe**age 


the talk led into a discussion of the work and aims 
and successes of the Woman’s Christian Temperance 
Union. Katie was surprised to learn how familiar 
Lois was with their plans, their arguments, their ac- 
complishments, and their hopes for the future. 

“No, I never joined. I couldn’t, you know; but 
Mrs. Thomas gave me some of their leaflets, which I 
read. From these I learned the address of their 
publishing house, and bought many more. I learned, 
Katie, that these women are doing more to safeguard 
my boys than anybody else in this nation. I’d like 
to have an opportunity to tell them so, and how much I 
appreciate it,” she added. 

Katie noticed that she said “boys,” but thought best 
not to call her attention to the mistake. Perhaps it 
would do her good to go out to the meeting. “She 
stays at home too closely since this trouble came upon 
her,” she thought. “I’m sure they’d be glad to have 
you come to the next meeting of the Union,” she said. 
“I’ll take you if you wish.” 

“I think I’d like to speak a few minutes at the mass- 
meeting next Sunday evening. Do you suppose they’d 
give me a few minutes on the program?” she asked. 

“Why — yes, I think they’d be glad to, but — Lois, 
do you think you want to speak on this subject in 
public?” Katie asked in hesitating surprise. 

Lois had always been so reticent about her own 
sufferings from Sam’s drinking habits, the whole sub- 
ject of drink was one which necessarily brought up 
painful recollections, and she had seemed to evade dis- 
cussions of it whenever possible. Her friends had come 


240 


Xote Norton's Snbestm ent 


to avoid, in her presence, even the most casual men- 
tion of anything connected with drinking, or the 
temperance question. 

“Yes, I have a message I want to give the workers 
in this cause. Will you ask the program committee 
if I may have a chance, Katie?” 

Katie said “yes” again, but thought it a very strange 
request for Lois to make. She told Sam about it at 
the first opportunity. He also thought it strange and 
unlike Lois to want to speak on such a topic, especially 
at a public meeting. They agreed that they would say 
nothing further about it and perhaps she would forget 
it, or get out of the notion. But no, she spoke of it 
several times during the next few days, and seemed to 
have it almost constantly in mind. Seeing this, both 
Sam and Katie tried, in a suggestive way, to change 
her mind about it, but seemingly made no impression. 

On Saturday, Lois said she was going to town. Katie 
went with her. She was surprised to see Lois purchase 
a large flag and some red, white and blue bunting. 

What are you going to do with all that bunting, 
Lois?” Katie asked on the way home. 

“Use it for drapery,” Lois answered briefly. 

“But there doesn’t seem to be any occasion for the 
use of the national colors, now.” 

“I shall put it away till there is,” Lois said with a 
quiet manner that forbade further questions. 

“What shall you wear tomorrow evening? Katie 
asked. If Lois insisted on making a public address she 
wanted her to look nice, and Lois had been somewhat 
neglectful of her personal appearance of late. 


Columlria , £ jlffles&age 


241 


“I could wear my white organdy if it were pressed 
and a few alterations made in the sleeves. Do you 
think that would be all right?” Lois asked. 

“Yes, you always look nice in that. I’ll press it for 
you this afternoon. Better wear your long linen coat 
over it to keep the dust off. Is that clean ?” 

“Yes, I washed and ironed it just last week.” 

The next evening Lois began early to make prepara- 
tions to go to the meeting. While she was in her room 
making her toilet, Katie said to Sam, “I wish we could 
dissuade her, Sam. It seems so unlike Lois to do any- 
thing of this kind.” 

“Oh, it’s all right, I guess. Lois is always reasonable 
and ladylike. What she says will be good and sensible, 
I know. Besides, I am glad to see her forget her 
troubles and take an interest in something.” 

The town hall, which was also used for a theater, was 
the place of the meeting. Katie spoke to the president 
of the Union, who had the program in charge, about 
her sister’s wish to say a few words. She looked sur- 
prised, but answered readily, “Certainly. We shall 
be very glad to have her. Tell her to come up to the 
platform ; all the speakers are to sit here.” 

Lois went up, but declined to sit on the platform. 
“I’ll just stay here, I think, till I hear my name called,” 
and she seated herself in the dressing-room. Sam and 
Katie, watching from below, and not seeing her on the 
stage, felt some uneasiness, but concluded that she felt 
somewhat timid after all. 

There were the usual opening exercises of singing, 
Scripture-reading and prayer, the president said a few 


242 


3Lote jWorton’a Snbesrtment 


words about the work of the organization, then the 
minister of the Methodist church spoke, and was fol- 
lowed by the minister of the Baptist church. More 
singing, an address by the Presbyterian minister, and 
then the chairman announced, “I now have the very 
great pleasure of introducing to you Mrs. Lois Morton 
Smith, who will make an address.” 

There was a rustle of interest in the wearied audience. 
They’d heard these “preachers” on all occasions — this 
was something new. Significant glances were ex- 
changed, and a lifting of eyebrows and craning of 
necks indicated their interest. 

But what was this ? A Goddess of Liberty ? 

A goddess surely, Lois looked, as she came slowly 
forward with stately step. Her flowing Greek draperies 
were of the nation’s banner arranged with its starry 
blue field across her breast, and its red and white 
stripes forming the trailing skirt of her gown. About 
her slender waist was a cord girdle of white, and on her 
queenly head was a little pointed red “Liberty cap.” 

She made a beautiful picture. They hadn’t ex- 
pected anything in costume ; this was interesting. 
There was a breathless hush as she began to speak in a 
clear, distinct, well-modulated voice. 

“My children, I have too long been silent on this 
matter which so vitally concerns so many of you, and 
should concern all of you. My heart has been heavy 
within me as I have realized, more and more as the 
years passed, how many of my sons are being ruined, 
body and soul, by this awful traffic in drink. To see 
them, one after another, grow from babyhood so pure 


Columbia'# i®le##age 


243 


and innocent, into reeling, bloated travesties of men, 
their lives blackened and blasted by this deadly traffic, 
makes my head heavy with the shame of it, and my 
heart hot with indignation at the cruelty of the sacri- 
fice. And when I reflect that not these young lives 
alone are thus blasted, but that there is no escape from 
the shame and disgrace of it for the mother and sister, 
the pure and loving wife and the tender children of the 
drunkard, I am consumed with the pity of it. 

“You, mothers of sons, who are trying so faithfully 
to instill principles of temperance and a hatred of the 
drink into the very fiber of your sons, how do you feel 
when you are obliged to send them from you, as they 
reach manhood’s estate, knowing that the father of 
this nation is so avaricious that on every corner he 
sanctions death-traps for these young citizens — the 
very bone and sinew of the nation — that draw them in, 
and bruise and maim and destroy them literally by 
thousands. 

“Oh, I know, I know. Your hearts are like lead in 
your bosoms when your sons leave your roof-tree, and 
your prayers almost batter down the gates of Heaven 
for protection against the evils that your Uncle Sam 
says, complaisantly, are necessary in order that he 
may have revenues to pay the costs of the very poverty, 
crime and misery which the business entails. 

“And if you are so anxious for your little flock, you 
can, perhaps, understand something of the awful weight 
of sorrow that is crushing the very life out of me when 
I look over this great nation and see my hundreds of 
thousands of 99113 facing toward these death-traps, and 


244 


ILote jWortonte Subesrtment 


feel that /, Columbia, the mother of this nation, who 
ought to have a voice in the making of the laws of the 
household, and a share in the ruling and well-ordering 
of it, am pushed carelessly, and sometimes contemp- 
tuously, aside, and can do nothing but wring my hands 
and cry to Heaven, ‘How long, O Lord, how long?’ ” 

Her pure, Madonna-like face was intense with feel- 
ing, the eyes dark with woe, and her voice seemed to 
have all the cadences of all the accumulated sadness 
of the world since time began. The dramatic power 
also, as she wrung her hands and then raised them to 
heaven as she uttered the heart-rending cry of, “How 
long, O Lord, how long?” brought tears to the eyes of 
hardened men, and suppressed sobs were heard all 
over the house. 

Everybody knew her, and they also knew much of 
the sorrow of her life. Why she had chosen to speak 
to them in this character they did not understand, but 
they felt that the sorrow she pictured was a part of her 
own sad experience. 

Sam and Katie were clutching each other’s hands in 
an agony of apprehension. 

After a moment’s pause she began to speak again. 

“And you, fathers, I would to God that I could 
understand the motives that prompt you. You seem 
to love your sons ; you seem to be so wise in your love 
in most respects; you labor from the early morning 
hours till late at night to provide them with comforts, 
with education, with the pleasures of life; you build 
expensive gymnasiums in which to develop them into 
the very finest specimens of physical manhood, erect 


Columbia’s! jWesKage 


245 


elegant churches and Y. M. C. A. buildings in which to 
cultivate the spiritual nature ; you make laws to safe- 
guard their health, and you rise in righteous indignation 
if any health officer fails to enforce these laws. You 
spend your lives accumulating property, and yet you 
would give it all — beggar yourselves if it were neces- 
sary — to ransom the lives of your sons. You would 
even give up your own lives to rescue your sons from a 
ravenous beast of prey — and yet, after all these proofs 
of your love, you seem to be willing to allow beasts of 
prey more ravenous, more dangerous than the fiercest 
tiger of the African jungle, to decoy your sons into dens 
of infamy where their health is lost, their firm muscles 
weakened, their cultivated minds deadened with al- 
coholic poisons, and their spiritual natures debauched 
and ruined. And whether you have laws forbidding 
these things or not, you either willfully blind yourselves 
to the dangers to which your sons are exposed, or you 
tamely and inanely submit to having your laws flouted 
before your very eyes. Oh, I cannot understand why 
you do not arise in your splendid power and might, 
drive out these conscienceless beasts of prey, and 
destroy their dens of iniquity. 

“You give the mothers of this nation the duty of 
making the home safe, and you say if the mother has 
done her duty she w T ill have brought up a son who is 
panoplied against temptation. But listen to me, O 
you fathers, what you need to remember is that the 
city is only a larger home, the state is home , the nation 
is HOME. 


246 


%o\& ffflorton'g 3fnbe£tment 


“If your great-hearted, good-natured Uncle Sam 
cannot realize that men are worth more than all the 
revenues of the nation, if you, loyal, patriotic citizens, 
cannot arise in your wrath and say, ‘We will have our 
country governed in the interests of our children,’ then 
call to your help your women, and listen to their words 
of counsel. They will tell you that it is a waste of time 
to spend so much of it teaching your son to guard 
against the temptation of drink, when the wise thing 
to do is to remove the temptation. They will tell you 
that it is the height of folly for this nation to license evil 
men to prey on innocence and weakness, for the money 
which they will pay for the privilege, when the cost of 
caring for the paupers, insane and criminals they make 
by their unholy traffic takes a far larger sum than they 
pay into the national treasury. The women will join 
their voices with yours in a clamor that will be heard 
at Washington above the clink of gold dropping into the 
treasury, and together you will ring a death-knell to 
King Alcohol that will echo round the world.” 

There was a look of exultation on her pale face for a 
moment, that faded as she went on : “My soul exults 
in the glimpse of light I sometimes catch on the mount- 
ain-top, but until it fully dawns I must weep and bewail, 
and go mourning all the day for the thousands of my 
sons who are every day sinking into the dishonored 
grave of the drunkard — whose souls are going out into 
the awful blackness of eternal night. Oh, ‘Woe is me! 
Woe is me!’ ” 

She bowed her face in her hands and slowly walked 
from the stage. 


Reunions! 


247 


CHAPTER XXVII 

Reunions: 

Sam sold off his stock, rented his farm, and took his 
poor, demented wife to Chicago. 

The great specialist whom he consulted said : “It is a 
mild form of mania from which she would quickly re- 
cover if her boy could be restored to her. If you fail 
to find him she will probably continue all her life — it 
will not be a long one — in this melancholy belief that 
she is Columbia, the nation’s mother. You must 
humor her in it and not combat it. Let her call you 
Uncle Sam without protest, and talk hopefully to her 
about your ‘boys.’ Bring her all the news of temper- 
ance victories that you hear — they are a good many in 
these days — for that will make her happier than any- 
thing else except to have her boy again. I do not 
need to advise you to make every effort possible to find 
him.” 

Paul Stanton had met them at the station. Lois had 
recognized him at once and pressed his hand warmly, 
saying : “It is good to see you, Paul. You are one of 
my boys who has never given me any anxiety.” 

Although Katie had told him of Lois’ hallucination 
when she wrote asking him to recommend a specialist 
and to find pleasant rooms for them, Paul had not 
realized what it would mean to him to see Lois so wan 
and pale, with this strange aloofness, and the sad. 


248 


Hois jWorton’g Snbesrtment 


pathetic face that no smile lighted. He was stunned. 
He returned the pressure of her hand without speaking, 
and turned quickly away. He stumbled over a suit- 
case, and bumped up against a man, on his hurried trip 
to the far corner of the room where he could dash the 
blinding tears from his eyes without being noticed. 
He fought with himself for control of his emotions dur- 
ing several long moments, realizing that Lois and Sam 
were waiting for him and probably thinking that he 
was behaving queerly, but principally conscious of a 
fierce, overwhelming desire to throttle Sam, and choke 
the life out of him, and then to take that poor, tortured 
woman in his arms and carry her off. Then he had 
conquered his emotion and piloted them to the little 
flat he had secured for them, expecting all the way that 
Lois would ask some question about Ralph, and fearing 
that his emotion would overcome him again if she did 
so. But she seemed absorbed, and did not speak again 
till he said good-by at the door of their flat, where his 
mother was waiting to receive them. He could not 
trust himself to go in. 

Mrs. Stanton had ordered and arranged the furnish- 
ings of their rooms, and Lois seemed interested in its, 
to her, novel arrangements. She was perfectly rational 
on all subjects but one, and she seemed now to be roused 
from her melancholy to new interest in the life of the 
city. 

After their visit to the great specialist, Sam and Paul 
began to make plans for another and more systematic 
search of the city for Ralph, and then one morning the 
unexpected happened. 


&eumon£ 


249 


A slip of note-paper with the name, “Ralph Morton 
Smith” in a round, boyish hand, was brought to Paul 
Stanton as he sat in his private office. He was speech- 
less for a moment with astonishment, then he rushed 
out to find his visitor. 

A slender boy of about twelve, with an alert, animated 
face, looked up at him out of a pair of brown eyes that 
seemed strangely familiar. 

“Is your name Ralph Morton Smith?” Paul asked. 
“Because if it is I am the happiest man in Chicago this 
morning to see you.” 

The brown eyes glowed with pleasure. “And I am 
very glad to see you, Mr. Paul Stanton,” Ralph said 
happily. 

They shook hands warmly, and then Paul led the 
way to his private office. 

“I have been expecting you for about three months. 
Would you mind telling me why you have been so slow 
in presenting yourself?” Paul asked. 

“How did you know I was in the city?” asked Ralph. 

“Your mother wrote me you were coming, and I 
went to three different trains to meet you one day. 
How did it happen that I didn’t?” 

“Because I got off too soon. Doctor Foote says I 
should have stayed on till the train got to the Union 
Station. But I got off at the first stop they made after 
we began to come to houses. I didn’t know the town 
was so big.” 

“Who is Doctor Foote?” 

“ Oh, he is the doctor who was so kind to me in the 


250 


ILote Norton's; Snbesrtment 


hospital. I live at his house now, and I’m his office 
boy. I’m earning a salary now,” he finished proudly. 

“How did you happen to be in the hospital?” 

“I got sick, and they couldn’t find my home address, 
so they sent me there. It’s a nice place to be, but I 
like Doctor Foote’s better.” 

“Where did you go when you first came?” 

“I had an awful time hunting for work, and then I 
got sick before I found it.” He couldn’t tell this 
“ such a new friend ” that he tramped for days and days, 
slept in boxes and nearly starved. “But I have a good 
job now at two dollars a week. I just began this morn- 
ing. I am going to save up all my money and send for 
Mamma to come and visit me as soon as I have enough. 
I wrote to her this morning about it.” 

“But your mother is here in the city.” 

“Mamma here? Oh, where? Where? Take me 
to her quick, won’t you ? Please don’t wait, Mr. Paul 
Stanton; I think she wants to see me right away.” 

“I know she does, my boy. And your father wants 
to see you, too.” 

He made no response to this, but said, pleadingly, 
“Can’t we start now to see Mamma?” 

“I think I shall have to telephone your father to 
come up here, first. You see, your Mamma hasn’t 
been very well, and the shock of seeing you might not 
be good for her. We three men will have to consult 
together whether it is best to break the good news to 
her gradually, or just to let you go right in and surprise 
her.” 


&eumon£( 


251 


“Mamma sick? Is she better now? Has Father 
been taking care of her?” 

“Yes, your father has given up his farming and sold 
all his cattle and horses to get money to bring your 
mother here to a very good doctor, and he is taking the 
very best care of her, Ralph.” 

“Well, ’phone Father, please, and tell him to come 
just as quick as he can.” 

When Sam came in he held out his arms to his boy, 
saying, “Your father made an awful mistake, Ralph. 
Can you forgive him?” and Ralph threw himself into 
his father’s outstretched arms and embraced him, cry- 
ing, “Papa, oh, Papa!” 

It was decided, after consultation with her phy- 
sician, that Ralph should surprise his mother. 

She was seated at the window, with her worn little 
Bible open on her lap, gazing with unseeing eyes at the 
beauty of the trees in the park opposite. Ralph stood 
a moment in the doorway, as he had been instructed, 
and called gently, “Mamma?” 

She turned slowly, with a look of bewilderment, as 
one who had just awakened from a dream. 

“Dear Mamma, don’t you know your boy?” Ralph 
said in sweetest tones of love and longing. He was 
finding it hard to keep from throwing his arms about 
her neck at once. 

She rose to her feet and leaned toward him while a 
trembling hopefulness began to light up her sorrow- 
darkened eyes. 

“Mamma, it is your own Ralphie. Aren’t you glad 
to see me?” Ralph could stand it no longer and ran 


252 


Hots jWotton’S Snbestment 


towards her. Her arms opened to receive him and she 
pressed him convulsively to her heart without a word, 
while he was calling her ‘‘dearest, darlingest, sweetest,” 
as he pillowed his head on her bosom and patted her 
pale cheek in the old loving way. Then suddenly she 
held him off and looked at him with an awed wonder 
in her eyes as she said, in a low tone of astonishment, 
“Did God let you come back to me, Ralphie?” 

He answered in reassuring tones, “Yes, Mamma.” 
Then added quickly : “I am so sorry I went away and 
left you. I am never going to leave you again. 
Mamma.” 

The cloud lifted from her poor distracted mind, and 
once more she pressed him to her heart as she sobbed : 
“I thought you were dead, Ralphie. I thought you 
were dead.” After a moment she said wistfully, 
“Papa will be so glad to see you too, Ralphie.” 

“Papa,” called Ralph, and Sam came forward and 
clasped his wife and boy both in his arms. After a 
long embrace Sam drew Lois to a couch, saying, “Now, 
little Mother, after all the excitement you must lie 
down and rest a while. She sank on the cushions with 
a happy smile, and holding a hand of each of her boys, 
soon fell into a peaceful, health-restoring slumber. 

Paul offered Sam a place in his office, an offer which 
was gladly and thankfully accepted. 

Two months later, as Paul and his mother were ex- 
changing their usual evening confidences, Paul re- 
marked : “Sam is proving himself a splendid business 
man, Mother; no indications that the old appetite 


&eunton£ 


253 


has any hold on him. As he becomes more familiar 
with his work he will be of inestimable value to me, I 
think. He is industrious and capable, and whole- 
heartedly devoted to my interests.” 

“ I am very glad to hear it, Paul. Since your father’s 
death you have taken too much responsibility on your- 
self, and worked too hard. The business is growing 
too large for one man to manage. I am very glad if 
Sam is proving trustworthy; he will be able to bring 
some happiness yet into poor Lois’ life, perhaps, so it 
will be a good thing for both you and her,” she replied. 

“ Sam’s had a hard lesson, and nearly wrecked three 
lives before he learned it ; but I think there’s no doubt 
about his having learned it at last. The very thought 
of drink is abhorrent to him now. He is trying to help 
others, too, to free themselves from the drink slavery. 
Lois and he are both workers in a little temperance 
mission down on Clark street. It seems a hopeless 
task to banish the dram-shop from this wicked city, 
but if it’s ever done it will be through the efforts of 
unpretentious mission- workers like Sam and Lois.” 

“Yes, I suppose so,” his mother replied absent- 
mindedly. After a moment of musing she said : “That 
boy of theirs is a delight. If you only had a son like 
that, Paul ” 

A wistful look came over Paul’s face. “It never 
can be, Mother,” he said as he patted her hand, “but 
Ralph shall be to me as a son. Whatever I can do to 
help him to make his life a blessing to his mother I 
shall do.” 

“You are helping many other mothers’ boys to be- 


254 


ICote Motion* £ Snbestfment 


come useful men, Paul, but I understand why Ralph is 
especially dear to you. Don’t think I am finding fault 
with you for not marrying. I am a selfish woman and 
glad to have my boy to myself. I was only thinking of 
your happiness, dear. I am the proudest woman in 
this big city, of my strong, clean, helpful son. Why, 
Paul, when I walk out with you it is all I can do to keep 
from shouting to passers-by : ‘Look at my son! None 
of the rest of you have such a son as mine!’ ” 

“You don’t need to say it, Mother,” Paul answered 
with a twinkle in his eye. 

Later, as he was about to retire, Paul said : “Mother, 
Katie is coming to spend the holidays with Lois. May 
we not have them all over to dinner some evening?” 

“I have been thinking of the same thing, Paul, only 
as you seem to avoid Lois I was not sure whether or 
not you would like it. It will be a very great pleasure 
to me.” 

It was a merry dinner party, that sat long over the 
dessert. The good old times of their childhood and 
youth were rehearsed. The good qualities of all those 
old-time friends were magnified till they would not have 
recognized themselves, and their faults had a kindly 
veil of silence drawn over them. Even their peculiar- 
ities became simply marks of distinction to smile at 
and be glad of. 

“What is the latest of ‘Napoleon Bonaparte’?” Paul 
said, turning to Katie. 

“He is dead, I believe,” she replied soberly, giving 
Paul a peculiar look, and glancing at Ralph. 


&eumon£ 


255 


“Why, Aunt Katie! Napoleon Bonaparte has been 
dead a long time,” Ralph said in astonishment. 

“They are just talking nonsense, Ralph,” Lois said 
to him. Then to Paul : “You remember Orville Jones, 
of course? Katie has just brought us word that he is 
married. Tell him about it, Katie.” 

“Yes,” said Katie, “we are all feeling so glad for 
Orville that he no longer lives alone. He has taken 
unto himself a widow with five small children, one of 
them a little hunchback boy. It is very evident that 
it was the crippled boy that Orville courted, for Mrs. 
Orville is about ten years older than Orville and has red 
hair and crossed eyes.” 

“You are making fun of my Orville,” said Ralph 
hotly. “I don’t care if his wife has got red hair and 
crossed eyes — and I guess Orville don’t, either — she’s 
the nicest, kindest lady! Why, one time when I was 
out on my pony and it began to hail she opened the 
door of her ‘soddy’ and motioned me to come in, and 
when I was going to tie Dandy to the clothesline post — 
’cause she hadn’t any stable — and the hail was pound- 
ing him awful, she just called, * Bring him right in here ; 
it’s a shame to let him get beat up that way.’ And 
she only had one little room, and it was pretty crowded, 
but she said there was room for Dandy, and there was 
too, — you needn’t laugh,” ended Ralph breathlessly. 

“He loves him so! And he wouldn’t understand 
how we could have made fun of him,” Lois said in a 
low voice to Paul. 

Sam said: “If you ever need any help to defend 
Orville, Ralph, I’m your man. You and I can recog- 


256 


EoiS fHorton’fi inbestment 


nize a man when we meet him better than some people 
can,” with a mischievous look in Katie’s direction. 

“We were not laughing at you, Ralphie, nor Orville, 
either. I love Orville Jones this minute better than I 
ever did in my life before,” said Katie. 

Turning to Paul again, she said : “The folks at home 
have come to recognize Orville as very much of a man. 
He led the committee that interviewed Pete Johnson 
and gave him just three hours to pack his trunk and 
get out of the state. The temperance forces are in the 
ascendency now, and they are looking the county over 
for the very staunchest material for official positions. 
My husband says there is no doubt that Orville Jones 
will be our next sheriff. Orville is slow, and not at all 
brilliant, but he has good sound sense and is absolutely 
trustworthy.” 

“No chance for oratory in the sheriff’s office,” said 
Paul with a smile he could not quite repress. 

“You don’t realize how Orville has changed, Paul,” 
said Lois. “He is very unassuming now, but oh, so 
tender, strong, and faithful ! Capable, too,” she added. 

“Yes,” chimed in Sam, “Orville is still awkward, 
still murders the King’s English, but he is a constant 
reader of the best newspapers and magazines and is a 
well informed man. His ideals are high, and he lives 
up to them better than some of us do. He will be a 
terror to evil-doers. Of one thing I am sure — no 
‘jointist’ or ‘bootlegger’ need attempt to do business 
in Prospect county while Orville Jones holds down the 
office of sheriff. Kansas only needs a few more officials 
like Orville to be the cleanest spot on the map.” 


“©nip Jltpself to JRame” 


257 


CHAPTER XXVIII 

“©nip jWpSelf to JSlame” 

“Lois, Paul wants to take Ralph with him on his 
European trip.” 

“A trip to Europe! Oh, Sam, what a glorious op- 
portunity for our boy! And how Ralph will enjoy it! 
But what is the matter? You don’t look as if you were 
glad of Ralph’s good fortune.” 

“I am trying to be. I can see the advantages of such 
a trip for the boy. I can afford the expense, too. Paul 
would have borne it, but I can’t allow that. Now that 
Ralph has finished the high school, a year of leisurely 
travel will give him a rest and change, build him up, 
and put him in better condition for his college course 
than he could be were he to start in at Harvard next 
fall. Sixteen is young, too, to begin the exacting work 
of a college student. Yes, I want the boy to go, and 
there is nobody on the face of the earth I’d rather trust 
him with than Paul Stanton. But, Lois, I guess there 
is a good deal of selfishness in me. I can’t help thinking 
how much I would like to take that trip with my boy. 
Of course I could not leave the business now to go, and 
besides, I realize that the boy would rather go with 
Paul. Lois, I’d give ten years of my life if I could have 
the love and admiration that Ralph gives to Paul,” and 
Sam bowed his face on his hands in a dejected attitude. 

The thought flashed through Lois’ mind, “You are 


258 


ICote Norton's 3fnbe£tment 


reaping ten years of sowing,” but she flew to his side, 
pillowed his head on her bosom and softly stroked the 
brown hair that was beginning to gray at the temples. 
“I know, Sam, I know; but Ralph never fails in re- 
spect to you, does he? And I know you have his 
sympathy, and love, too.” 

“Yes, he gives me respect, and sympathy, and love 
too, in a dutiful, protecting kind of way ; but admira- 
tion and fellowship such as Paul receives from him I 
shall never know from my son. And, Lois, if it were 
not for the memory I have of him as a little fellow, up 
to about eleven or twelve, who gave me his whole- 
hearted allegiance, who was so proud and happy to be 
with me, I could bear it better. I know I have only 
myself to blame, but there is the bitterness of death in 
that knowledge.” 

How she pitied him! What could she say to com- 
fort him? Lois went on stroking the bowed head and 
no words came to her. She realized, dimly, that this 
was Sam’s Gethsemane, and no one could save him from 
the agony of it. But she must say something to give 
him hope and comfort. “Sam, dear, I can’t bear to 
see you so despondent. Think of the four years since 
you came to Chicago, and what a useful, upright life 
you have led. You have won respect, and confidence, 
and honor. Why, Sam, who is going to manage this 
large business of Paul’s while he is gone? You are, 
aren’t you?” 

Sam nodded. 

“And in whose care is his mother to be left? His 
mother, Sam, whom he loves so devotedly.” 


“<©nlp JWptfelf to $Sla me” 


259 


“ Yes, Paul asked if we would go to live with her — be 
to her son and daughter while he was gone.” 

“Sam, Sam! Don’t you see how Paul and his 
mother honor you? And Sam, let me tell you some- 
thing. No word of Paul’s will ever lessen your boy’s 
love and respect for his father. Nay, more, his very 
influence over Ralph will help him to see the real no- 
bility of your character that perhaps his young, harsh 
judgment has hindered him from seeing clearly. I 
know Paul! You can trust him to the uttermost!” she 
finished enthusiastically. 

Lois was off her guard — the guard she had always 
kept on herself where Paul was concerned, because of a 
feeling she had that Sam had never gotten over his 
jealousy of him. 

Sam looked at her now for a moment, curiously, be- 
fore he spoke. Was the demon of jealousy stirring in 
his heart? 

“Yes, Lois, I do trust him. I think I know Paul 
Stanton, too. No brother could have been kinder to 
me than he has been. He is the straightest man I have 
ever known. His nobility of character almost equals 
that of my own dear wife. Lois,” he said suddenly, 
“you and Paul Stanton would have been well mated. I 
wonder that he never asked you to marry him. I used 
to think he was in love with you when we were young 
folks together.” 

The flush that mantled her cheek and crept up to 
her white forehead answered his curiosity. Sam felt 
^shamed of himself, but some overpowering influence 


260 


Hot# jWorton'£ Snbestment 


drove him on. “Lois, tell me,” he said hoarsely, “did 
he ask too late — after you’d promised me?” 

“No, Sam, I refused him before I said ‘yes’ to you.” 

Expressions of wonder, incredulity, and slowly dawn- 
ing assurance chased each other over Sam’s mobile 
countenance, to be finally replaced with one irradiating 
happiness and content that illumined and ennobled his 
handsome face. After a moment of loving adoration 
he said, “ ‘Greater love hath no man than this, that a 
man lay down his life for his friend,’ the Bible says; 
but, Heart of my heart, I mean no irreverence when I 
say that I believe that some women have a greater love 
than any man — a love that can continue to pour itself 
out on an unworthy object though it suffer a thousand 
deaths. I know that it is utterly impossible for me to 
fully comprehend what you have borne for me — but 
surely death would have been infinitely easier.” 

“Hush, Sam! It’s all right now.” 

They were interrupted by the ringing of the tele- 
phone, and Sam went to answer it. 

“Little Mollie Patterson is begging me to come down 
to the Rookery. They are in great trouble over 
Johnnie. It seems he has been hurt. The poor child 
seemed to be distracted — she was so wild and in- 
coherent,” Sam explained as he began getting into his 
overcoat. 

“Oh, Sam, do you think you need to go? I dread 
to have you go down into that awful neighborhood 
tonight.” 

“But, Lois, you know how they depend on me, and I 
must not lose my hold on them by failing them now in 


“(©nip jUpself to $Slame“ 


26l 


their great need. I feel sure, from the terror in little 
Mollie’s voice, that they are in desperate need of help. 
Poor Mary Patterson is fighting against such odds to 
keep her boy from going the way of his father — yes, I 
must go.” 

“Go where, Father?” asked Ralph, who had just 
entered the hall. 

Sam hastily explained. 

“Father, the way you look after those poor people 
down at the mission reminds me of the Sunday-school 
lesson of last Sunday — ‘hungry, and ye gave me meat, 
naked, and ye clothed me, sick and in prison, and ye 
visited me,’ you know. It would be a queer thing if 
they did not believe in Christianity with such an 
example before them all the time.” 

Sam looked at his son in astonishment. The boy 
had never before said anything like this. 

“I mean it. Father,” Ralph said as he noted the look 
of amazement, “and I’m not the only fellow that thinks 
so, either. You know we’ve been reading ‘In His 
Steps’ at the club. We finished it last night, and Mr. 
Clark asked if any of us boys knew anybody that we 
thought was walking in His steps. Several boys said 
they did, so he asked us if we wanted to tell who it was, 
and Don King said, ‘Mr. Samuel Smith.’ Then Alf 
Scanlon said, ‘I was thinking of him too.’ ” 

Sam was speechless with wonder and astonishment. 
He looked at Lois, and saw her eyes shining with happi- 
ness. Then he turned to Ralph, and, taking his hand, 
gave it a grip that said what his lips could not. 

“Better let me go with you, Father,” Ralph urged. 


262 


Hois Norton’s Snbesitment 


“No, no, son; stay here and take care of your 
mother,” and he was gone. 

“Ralphie boy, I am so glad you said that! Oh, I am 
so glad !” and Lois threw her arms about the neck of her 
tall lad and kissed him first on one cheek and then on the 
other. 

“Well, Motherdy, I’m glad I did, too. I’ve thought 
it for a long time, but Father seemed to be surprised 
that I did.” 


“|9ou fjabc been Cbeateb” 


263 


CHAPTER XXIX 

“£>ou fjabe been Cfjeatcb” 

In the big house on the Lake Shore Drive the same 
evening, Paul was saying to his mother : “It is a plan 
I have had in mind for some time. You will excuse 
the weakness in your boy’s make-up, because you have 
always known it was there, when I confess to you that 
I feel the need of getting away from Chicago — away 
from a constant reminder of loss that threatens to 
weaken my manhood and bring me to a state of con- 
temptible self-pity. No, don’t indulge me in a word of 
sympathy,” as he saw she was about to speak. “ Let me 
tell you my plans more fully. I believe that nobler 
ambitions than I have ever before had have been stir- 
ring in my heart lately because of the lowly, self-sacri- 
ficing work that Sam and Lois have been doing among 
the weak and helpless victims of this curse of strong 
drink. Lois’ stories of discouraged and hopeless 
women, and suffering, blighted children have aroused 
all the chivalry of my nature. I long for power. Power 
I am determined to have. Not only the power of 
wealth, which is already mine in a measure, but the 
power of intimate knowledge of conditions, and also 
political power. I fear I have been patting myself on 
the back and thinking myself a fairly good sort of a 
fellow because I have scattered my money pretty freely 
among the poor. I have thought, too, that my whole 


264 


TLois jWorton’s investment 


duty as a citizen was done when I tried to keep in- 
formed on the political situation and never neglected 
to cast my vote for the best man on election day. But, 
Mother mine, these things no longer satisfy my con- 
science. I’ve got to pitch into the fight — city, state, 
and national. So, I am going into training, as it were, 
for a year. I am run down, and in no physical con- 
dition to stand the strain that would come were I to 
start in the fight now.” 

“ I am glad you are going to take the rest. I have 
seen for some time that you needed it, my boy.” 

“Yes, I realize that I do, Mother, and the way 
seems open now. Sam has been a great help in the 
business, and since he has been made a member of the 
firm he has taken hold with more interest than ever; 
still, as long as I am here he will not take the re- 
sponsibility that I would like to hand over to him. But 
a year out of his reach, except by cable — and a man who 
has homesteaded in Kansas is not going to throw away 
much money on cable messages — will develop his 
confidence in his own judgment. When I come back I 
want to be free from business cares and at liberty to 
give myself wholly to civic interests. While I am 
abroad I shall study conditions in other countries. I 
shall try to be open-minded to the best that is in other 
systems of government, especially of cities. I shall 
keep copious notes and bring home much material, no 
doubt, that will be of use to me in the political fight — 
for I am going into politics. Does that word ‘fight’ 
sound low and disgusting to you, Mother mine?” 

“No, Paul, not when it is my own son who is pro- 


“|9ou babe been Cbeateb" 


265 


posing to enter the lists against such corrupt officials 
as this city has had. I think every man ought to feel 
as a good housekeeper does when she sees a dirty, 
slovenly, mismanaged house. I always feel like don- 
ning dust-cap and apron and cleaning up. Paul, I’d 
like to help in this municipal house-cleaning — I’d like 
to vote.” 

“Would you, Mother ? I wish you could — and every 
other woman in the city. I believe that men need the 
help of women in keeping the city in order as they do 
in keeping clean and orderly homes. I believe the time 
is coming soon when they will see it, too. Many of the 
best men do now, but the women have been reluctant 
to add this new responsibility to those they already 
have. Mother,” he exclaimed suddenly, “why not ally 
yourself with the band of suffragists, open your house 
for meetings and use your influence among your wealthy 
friends to gain other recruits? It would give you a 
new interest while I am gone that would keep you from 
missing your boy so much.” 

“I have been thinking of it,” she said quietly. 
“ Lois and I have had many talks on the subject. Now 
that you are planning to give yourself to this noble 
work your mother will try to take a few forward steps 
herself.” 

“And, Mother?” 

“Yes, dear, what is it?” as he hesitated. 

“It is about Lois, Mother. She will miss Ralph so 
much — she needs some new interest in her life. Not 
suffrage, or work of that kind that will require her to 
give more of herself — she is doing enough of that now. 


Hois iWorton’s 3fnbes!tment 


Try to persuade her to take a course at the Art In- 
stitute. She was always a great lover of beauty; I 
believe an Art course would mean pure enjoyment to 
her. I suggested it to her the other day, and if you 
could have seen how her face lighted up you would 
know, as I do, that the study would mean very great 
happiness to her. Her long years of self-sacrifice have 
almost blotted out any thought of duty to self. It will 
take some persuasion, I fancy, but try to induce her to 
do it, Mother. I’ll speak to Sam about it, too. I 
haven’t forgotten her skill in drawing when she was a 
girl, nor her keen delight in the beauties of nature. 
How she would enjoy a trip like this one Ralph and I 
are to take,” he added musingly. 

“Paul, Paul, I will speak! Whose fault was it — 
yours or Lois’ — that things are not as they ought to 
be ? She ought to be going with you on this European 
trip — she and your own son. Paul, whose was the fault 
of the awful mistake?” 

Paul leaned his head back against the cushion of his 
chair and closed his eyes. His lips were pressed 
tightly together, to keep them from trembling, but in 
spite of his efforts at self-control, slow tears forced 
themselves beneath the fringes of the closed eyes and 
coursed down the worn face. 

“My boy, my poor, poor boy!” His mother was 
pillowing the dear head on her bosom which had so 
often in childhood been his refuge and comfort. 

He conquered his emotion in a moment, and said : 
“Mother, we ought not to speak of this, and this must 
be the last time. I do not know whose the fault was, 


“|9ou f}abe been Cbeateb” 


267 


or whether there was fault. I have thought, some* 
times, that if I had not been so timid, if I had gone 
boldly to woo her, it might have been different. But I 
don’t know. She seemed to have, from the time his 
mother died with her head on Lois’ lap, a feeling of 
responsibility for Sam. In her letter refusing me she 
said, ‘He needs me so much more than you do.’ Oh, 
it’s all a mystery, Mother.” 

“I think you may have made a mistake, Paul, but I 
know Lois did. She made a poor investment of her life” 
she said bitterly. 

“Don’t say that, Mother. Think what a man she 
has made of Sam — there is no doubt that he would 
have made a failure of his life without her — and only 
God knows the value of a man. Then where is there 
another such boy as Lois’ boy? Mother, Mother! you 
cannot say that she has not large returns from her in- 
vestment.” 

“But, Paul, you have been cheated. Yes, cheated 
of the wife that would have made a fitting mate for 
you — I verily believe of the wife God designed for you. 
Cheated of the children that should have been yours — 
the well-born children who should have borne their 
part and done their work in this old world. Cheated of 
happiness that belonged to you. And oh, Paul, my 
boy, how Lois has been cheated of her happiness! It 
breaks my heart to think of all that poor girl has suf- 
fered when I know what shielding love and happiness 
might have been hers.” 

“Don’t! Don’t, Mother! We must put such 
thoughts from us! Think of the thousands and thou- 


268 


Hotsi jWorton’S SnbeStment 


sands of women who suffer in the same way. She is 
only one who at great cost has saved a man to useful 
life in the world. I wonder how long this nation will 
go on in the man-destroying traffic, which it could stop 
with a word, expecting women to save its men at such 
a price?” 


“3n ©t* »t tp* ff 


269 


CHAPTER XXX 

©is; !§>tep$r 

“ ‘Walking in His steps,’ in — His — steps. The boys 
think that of me? My son thinks it?” 

Sitting in the corner of the street car, Sam kept re- 
peating this over and over. Somehow he found it hard 
to believe that he, Sam Smith, one time drunkard, 
could have made such a reputation as that. Among 
boys, too, the keenest of judges of human nature. 

“Walking in His steps. My son thinks that of me. 
They think lam growing to be something like Jesus, 
who went about doing good. I want to be. I’ve 
tried to be; but I didn’t think the boys noticed. I 
didn’t think Ralph saw how hard I was trying.” 

Such a warmth was about his heart, and such thank- 
fulness in it. 

He climbed the four flights of rickety stairs to the 
room of the Pattersons with a face which spoke of a 
peaceful, lowly heart filled with loving good-will. A 
sound of weeping and wailing mingled with curses was 
heard above a babel of voices as he neared the top of 
the last flight. The narrow hall was full of people. 

“Here’s the Missioner.” 

“Make way for the Missioner.” 

“Ach! and it’s glad I am to see yez have come, 
Misther Smith. Here’s poor Mary weepin’ her heart 


270 


ICote iHorton'* Snbestment 


out for her misfortunate bye, and none of us can find 
the words to comfort her.” 

“Whist! let the Missioner go in, Katie, girl. He’ll 
know what’s bist to do.” 

A passage-way was opened, and Sam entered the 
room. He was familiar with its poverty-stricken ap- 
pearance, but its usual orderliness was changed into 
chaos. A glance showed him that a struggle had taken 
place there. A broken chair lay in front of the door, 
the rusty old cook-stove had its four bricks knocked 
from their usual place and careened sidewise on three 
legs, and broken dishes were scattered about the floor. 
Seated in the midst of the debris sat Mary Patterson, 
rocking herself back and forth and moaning despair- 
ingly, and on a pallet, evidently hastily improvised 
from a dismantled bed in the corner, was a boy of about 
fifteen. He lay motionless and apparently dead. In 
the corner farthest removed from these, three men were 
struggling with a fourth, who was pouring out on them 
a stream of awful, frenzied oaths. 

Sam had scarcely entered before there was another 
commotion in the hallway, and two burly policemen 
forced their way in. 

“What’s the row here?” demanded one. 

“He’s kilt the boy.” 

“Sure, he knocked him in the head with the stove- 
poker.” 

“Old Bill come home crazy wid the drink and com- 
minced to abuse Mollie, and the boy wouldn’t stand for 
it. He tried to defind his mither,” 


“in m* &tt9*” 


271 


These were some of the answers received from the 
neighbors, all talking at once. It was enough. The 
situation explained itself to those minions of the law, 
accustomed to such scenes. A pair of handcuffs were 
snapped on the brawny wrists, and, still struggling and 
swearing, Old Bill was hustled away. 

“Have you sent for a doctor?” Sam asked. 

“Yes,” some one had just gone. It had happened 
just a few minutes before he came. Kneeling, he 
placed his hand over the heart of the prostrate boy, then 
looked up to say, “Mary, the boy still lives. Keep up 
your courage. It may ” 

“Fire! Fire! Fire!” 

The alarm came from below in frightened, insistent 
tones. There was a rush for the stairs, a scurrying of 
feet in the adjoining rooms as children were snatched 
from their beds by frenzied parents and borne shriek- 
ing down the stairs, and mingled with the calls and 
shouted orders was the increasing clamor of “Fire! 
Fire! Fire!” 

In a twinkling Sam was left alone with Mary and her 
unconscious boy. They were not heartless, these poor 
neighbors of a stunned and helpless woman, but they 
had families of their own to look after, and besides, with 
Sam’s coming what more natural than to leave the 
responsibility for the safety of Mary and her helpless 
boy to him? 

He was trying to rouse her to a sense of the danger. 
She was dazed with her grief, and could not understand 
at first. 


KLo i# ffloxton’& Snbestment 


272 


“We must go down at once, Mary. I’ll carry the 
boy and you follow close behind.” 

He was wetting some sheets, towels, quilts, every- 
thing he could find at hand that would answer his 
purpose. He threw one over Mary, and drawing her to 
her feet told her to put it over her face if they had to 
go through dense smoke ; then, wrapping the boy in 
another and hastily placing one about his own head, he 
lifted her son and started for the stairway, calling 
Mary to follow. As he reached the top step he glanced 
back and saw her still standing where he had left her. 
He went back and tried again to make her understand. 

“Mary, we must take Johnnie to the doctor. There 
is a fire down below, and the doctor can’t get to Johnnie. 
You hold Johnnie’s hand and come with me now.” 

Something for her to do. They had to take Johnny 
to the doctor. Her poor numbed brain comprehended 
Johnnie’s need of a doctor before it could her own and 
his need of safety from the danger of fire. 

“All right,” she said. 

They reached the hall below, but here the smoke 
began to thicken. Sam was struggling under the 
weight of the boy, but relieved to find that Mary was 
keeping her place by his side and clinging fast to 
Johnnie’s hand. 

“Quick, Mary! We must hurry!” Sam said breath- 
lessly as they rushed along the second hall and began 
to descend the next flight of stairs. “ Put the wet cloth 
over your face,” Sam ordered. Now, at last, the dense 
smoke aroused her to the situation they were facing. 


“3fn Mi* g>tep$” 


273 


“The house must be burning,” she said. 

“Yes. I’m afraid we can’t get down by way of the 
stairs, Mary.” 

They reached the foot of this flight, but at the head 
of the next it was Mary who said, as she saw the flames 
leaping up, “Window. Fireman. Come this way,” 
and she led him to a room on the right, carefully closed 
the door after them, and opened a window fronting the 
street. As she did so a shout went up from below, a 
ladder was quickly raised and in a twinkling a fireman 
appeared below the window. 

“Take the boy first. He’s been hurt,” and Sam 
handed him out. As the fireman’s arms received the 
boy there was a sound of rushing feet outside the door 
and a voice calling, “Mother? Mother? Where are 
you, Mother?” 

Mary flew to the door and called, “Mollie, Mollie, 
here, Mollie,” but the sound of flying feet ascending the 
stairs was the only answer. Mary started to follow 
them, but Sam caught her and pulled her back into the 
room protesting, “ It’s my Mollie. I’ve got to go after 
her.” 

“No. Listen. You’ve got to take care of Johnnie. 
You go down from here. I’ll go after Mollie,” and, 
pushing her toward the window where the fireman was 
shouting to her to “Come on,” he hastened up the stairs 
they had just descended, calling, “Mollie, Mollie?” 

“Oh, I can’t find Mother,” she wailed as he caught 
her. 

“She’s safe, Mollie. Come with me,” and taking the 
distracted girl by the hand he turned to descend the 


274 


Hote jWortonte Snbetftment 


stairs. Half-way down they were met by such a dense 
volume of heated, stifling smoke that they were obliged 
to retrace their steps. 

“A front window — quick,” panted Sam. 

“This way.” Mollie knew, and led him quickly to 
one. He threw it open. At first the smoke pouring 
from windows hid all below, the rising wind cleared it 
away for an instant, and there, right below, was a fire- 
man. Sam shouted, but the roar of the flames drowned 
his voice. He realized that it was only a matter of 
moments now when the old shell would collapse. Mollie 
clung to him in terror crying, “ Oh, Mr. Smith, I don’t 
want to die, I don’t want to die.” 

How could he save her? So young to meet such an 
awful fate. He thought only of Mollie. At that 
instant his hand touched a coil of rope hanging from a 
stout hook by the window, placed there for just such an 
emergency. In a twinkling it was fastened about 
Mollie and he was lowering her carefully, but rapidly — 
they must see her soon from below. Yes, a fireman 
standing on the ladder below caught her in his arms as 
she swung within his reach, and cutting the rope called 
up, “Come on yourself,” and quickly began to descend 
with his burden. 

Sam’s ears were filled with the fierce roar of the de- 
vouring flames eating the heart out of the old building. 
He hoped everybody was out. He was so glad he had 
been there to save Mary, and her boy, and little Mollie. 
He had done all he could, and now he could go home 
to Lois and Ralph. Lois would be glad he had come 


“3Jn m* fttep*” 


27 5 


when he told her how he had helped, and Ralph — oh, 
Ralph he supposed would call him a hero, and he smiled 
as he swung himself out. Too late. The leaping 
flames pushed inward the walls of the old rookery, and 
Sam Smith, overcomer, was borne to the Heavenly City 
in a chariot of fire. 


276 


ICote i®lorton'£ Ifnbestfment 


CHAPTER XXXI 

Sfte Mitf) Came ®rue 

It was a year later that Lois opened her door one 
evening to Paul Stanton. 

“Will you give a lonesome man an hour or two of 
your society this evening?” he asked wistfully. 

“Why, Paul, you know I am always glad to see you. 
Come in. Ralph is away this evening, and I was feel- 
ing a bit lonely, too.” 

“Yes, I knew Ralph was going to the social at the 
mission.” 

As he seated himself in the cosy room, before the 
open grate, he remarked: “I received a letter from 
Orville Jones today that set me to thinking of old 
times. I thought perhaps you’d like to read it.” 

“Indeed I would. Orville writes to Ralph oc- 
casionally, but it has been quite a long while now since 
we have heard from him directly, though I had a 
letter from Katie today in which she speaks of him. 
Read me your letter from Orville, and then I’ll read 
you mine from Katie.” 

As Lois finished reading Paul said, “It is hard for me 
to picture ‘Napoleon Bonaparte’ in the role of an im- 
portant man in any kind of a community. ‘A quiet, 
dignified, forceful man,’ was Katie’s characterization 
of him, wasn’t it?” 


©ts lifef) Came tErue 


277 


“He has done more for the uplift of the community 
than any other man in it,” read Lois again from the 
letter. 

“She is the leader in everything good. Her name is 
the first one mentioned on any committee to do real 
helpful work for the community,” read Paul from his 
letter. “Sort of a mutual admiration society isn’t it?” 
he said laughingly. “Time was when there was only 
one member of it. Dear little Katie ! how we did tease 
her because in her womanly heart she pitied Orville 
and was kind to him. And poor Orville! I was one 
of his cruelest tormentors, I’m afraid, when I should 
have been most sympathetic of all — for I was in the 
same boat.” 

“In the same boat?” said Lois in surprise. 

“Yes, Orville was possessed with a hopeless love, and 
later I knew the same sorrow.” 

“Oh, but — but you never were like Orville. You 
— it wasn’t the same in your case, Paul, you know it 
wasn’t,” stammered Lois. 

In her earnestness to make him understand the dif- 
ference between Katie’s feeling for Orville and hers for 
him, and her embarrassment in finding the right words 
— words that would not say too much, a delicate flush 
had tinted her cheeks and her brown eyes had drooped 
under his eager look. In Paul’s memory the picture 
of the slender, brown-haired girl in the green gown 
which made her look like a wild rose, had never lost its 
brilliant color nor its charm for him. But tonight in 
the softly clinging gray crepe which she wore, with the 
firelight shining on the soft waves of her gray hair and 


278 


ILois fttorton’is Snbestment 


the delicately flushed cheeks, he wondered at the beauty 
that could survive the years of sorrow and anguish she 
had borne. “She is more like a rare and beautiful 
orchid now than a wild rose,” he said to himself. 

There was a hush that was full of meaning. Neither 
said anything for some time, and both were busy with 
thoughts of the past. 

Paul broke the silence. “Lois, my mind has been 
busy today with memories of bygone days. I think 
you never knew how large a place you occupied in my 
life. From the day you first came to school in the Old 
Happy Valley school-house a merry, lovable little 
sprite who captured my boyish heart that first day, you 
have always filled it. As we grew up I came to have 
the feeling that we should always be together. When 
I left the old neighborhood for the city I regarded the 
separation as only temporary, and had clearly in mind 
the idea that of course it would be only a few years till 
I would return and carry my little sweetheart back to 
the beautiful home I should make for her in Chicago. 
When your letter came, telling me that you had given 
yourself to Sam, I could hardly believe I had read 
aright. Somehow I had felt so sure that you and I 
were destined to mate, that the possibility of your 
marrying anybody else had never presented itself to 
me seriously. At first I thought I simply could not 
let you make such a mistake, and I took the train for 
Dicksburg, intending to remonstrate with you, to claim 
you as mine, to defy Sam Smith, and to convince you 
that it was I who loved you with the most unselfish 
love and whom you really loved best. 


W# Kltsf) Came ®rue 


279 


“As the train sped onward through the night I read 
and reread your letter, and more and more those two 
little sentences, ‘I am going to marry Sam. He needs 
me more than you do,’ came to have a ring of finality 
about them. I recalled the inconsistencies of your 
nature — your impulsiveness that seemed to result in 
action with no time for thought, but that nevertheless 
failed to carry you beyond the hearing of Duty’s voice, 
however hard or dangerous, the task to which she called 
you. I remembered the stand you took for justice 
and a fair chance for Sam when you came home from 
school and found us all so hard on him, and how I ad- 
mired you for it, but this was carrying it too far — away 
beyond reason — to marry him because he needed you. 
I was mad with jealousy of Sam, and frantic with fear 
for you. I turned over many desperate schemes for 
rescuing you from what I considered your own ob- 
stinate, mistaken sense of duty ; I thought unutterable 
things about Sam; but all the time I knew I was 
butting my head against a stone wall, for it was beneath 
me to become Sam’s detractor in order to secure my 
own happiness; moreover, I knew that if I could, in 
my desperation, attempt it, I should only earn for my- 
self your contempt. I cursed the martyr ancestor who 
gave you such will-power and devotion to duty. At 
last, as dawn came, I gave up the struggle and said to 
myself : ‘ Go ahead, you stupid, self-conceited block- 
head. You’ve left her all these years to the influence 
of Sam’s personality, now go and make an exhibition of 
your grief at her loss — for you know that nothing you 
can say now will change her decision — and add to the 


£80 


%oi& iWorton’jS investment 


unhappiness she already feels at having to disappoint 
you. Yes, go ahead if you are selfish enough to do it ; 
but if you have any sense left you will go home without 
seeing her.’ I left the train at the station this side of 
Dicksburg and returned to Chicago on the next train ; 
but there has not been a day in all the years since that 
I have not thought of you, and prayed that life might 
not be too hard on you. I have cherished you in my 
heart as something precious that once was mine and 
though taken from me and given to another was still 
inexpressibly dear to me. Lois, you are a noble 
woman, and you have done a grand piece of work that 
was well worth the doing. But it is finished. For 
Sam’s sake I am glad you did it.” 

Silence fell between them for the space of several 
minutes. There was so much that could not be said. 
The strength and beauty of their friendship, however, 
consisted in the fact that each could understand so 
much without the formality of words. There never 
had been any real misunderstanding between them. 

Presently Paul continued: “I have also been hav- 
ing visions of what might be in the future, and I feel 
that I cannot wait much longer to realize them. I am 
not quite forty years old, and you, Lois, are only thirty- 
seven. Do you realize that we are young people yet? 
There may be thirty or forty years of happiness before 
us. Shall we spend those years together, Lois, dear? 
Shall we walk hand in hand the rest of the way, Sweet- 
heart?” 

He reached out both hands to her, where she sat 
opposite him by the glowing grate, and she put both 


Hist life!) Came Ctue 


281 


of hers into the strong, clean hands of the truest gentle- 
man she had ever known. 

They sat thus with clasped hands, each looking into 
the other’s face with a smile of great happiness and 
content, until Paul said, “I wonder if you have for- 
gotten the time that I wished on your ring, and the 
note I wrote telling you the wish I had made?” 

“ Have I forgotten ? I will convince you in a moment 
that I have not.” 

She arose and left the room. Returning a moment 
later, she laid in Paul’s hand a little pink heart-shaped 
box. He opened it wonderingly. When he saw the 
little red-and-white carnelian ring his face lighted up 
with understanding, and drawing her to his side their 
lips met in the long-deferred kiss. 

Ralph came in and found them seated on the couch 
with Paul’s protecting arm about his mother and his 
mother’s head resting against Paul’s shoulder in bliss- 
ful content. They enjoyed his surprise, and waited to 
hear what he would say. They did not have long to 
wait. 

“Mother, dear, and Papa Paul, you’ll take me with 
you to Europe, won’t you?” But not waiting for an 
answer he threw his arms about them and gave them 
both a bear-hug, crying, “ I know you will ! I know you 
will! and Grandma Stanton too. Oh, won’t we have 
the dandiest time that ever was, on our honeymoon 
trip? May I go, this minute, and tell Grandma 
Stanton? I want to call her Grandma. I think she’ll 
like to have me.” 


282 


Hote jttlorton’s Snbostmcnt 


“ Yes, and tell her, for me, that it will be very easy for 
me to say Mother Stanton,” replied Lois, laughingly. 

“May he also tell her that we shall start on our 
honeymoon trip two weeks from today?” asked Paul. 

Not waiting for his mother’s answer, Ralph shot out 
of the door, but stuck his head in again a moment later 
to say, “I’ll not be gone long, for I’m going to pack my 
grip tonight.” 

After an interval, in which the realization of their 
happiness was too great for words, Lois said earnestly, 
“Paul, dear, your mother told me of the plan you had, 
a year ago, for your European trip, and the purpose to 
which you had determined to devote your life. You 
will not give up any part of that plan and purpose, now 
that I am to share your life, will you? And you will 
let me help in all your labors, so far as a woman can, 
will you not, my valiant Knight?” 

“Darling, I would that I had the power to shield 
you from all knowledge of the misery caused by the 
curse of strong drink, but I realize that I am not marry- 
ing an irresponsible doll, but a great-hearted, noble 
woman whose own sorrows have only sweetened her 
and made her responsive to the heart-break of the 
world. I have a passionate desire to make you happy, 
and I know that happiness, to you, spells service ; so, 
little partner, together we will work at the biggest task 
this old world has on hand just now.” 

“We shall be in a glorious company, Paul. The 
work that is being done by some of earth’s noblest 
and best to free our great nation from the legalized 


©is Ifflisi) Came ®rue 


283 


liquor traffic surely must result, in a few years more, in 
a safe, sane, ideal nation of prosperous and happy 
homes. It will be splendidly worth while, dear Paul, 
to invest our lives in the making of such history.” 


THE END. 


SFP 6 IQ’ 2 































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